


La Morte Borgia - Cesare

by CreziasAlias



Series: La Morte Borgia [2]
Category: The Borgias (Showtime TV)
Genre: Borgiacest, Drama & Romance, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Forbidden Love, Historical, Historical References, Moral Ambiguity, Power Play, Renaissance Italy, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreziasAlias/pseuds/CreziasAlias
Summary: Cesare has just done the unforgiveable: fratricide. Thinking this a logical and necessary act, he considers himself unphased -  while in reality, that ultimate murder is the symbol of much more than politics or mere pragmaism. Years of built-up tensions and repressed feelings within Cesare come to the surface, and dramatically restructure not only his life but the dynamics of his entire family. As his relationship with his father becomes more strained than ever, his relationship with his sister is slowly pushing itself centre stage, until it has Cesare firmly in its grip.*This is the prelude to Lucrezia's story (La Morte Borgia - Lucrezia, part I).Chapter XVI just added, where Cesare faces the Neapolitan ambassador and speaks to Micheletto. Next chapter (with Crezia!) coming soon.
Relationships: Cesare Borgia & Lucrezia Borgia, Cesare Borgia & Micheletto Corella, Cesare Borgia/Lucrezia Borgia, Cesare Borgia/Micheletto, Cesare Borgia/Niccolò Machiavelli, Cesare Borgia/Rodrigo Borgia | Pope Alexander VI
Series: La Morte Borgia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1047879
Comments: 44
Kudos: 32





	1. Drowning Cats

He went to her first, after he’d done it.

He’d kept Micheletto at his side immediately after, making provisions for a future that had recently been greatly altered, even if nobody except him and Micheletto knew it. When eventually they started going in circles, Micheletto left him, even though they’d both noticed the pointlessness of their discussions long before Micheletto excused himself.

It’s not that he felt guilty: he considered guilt a sentiment for God-fearing people, and he did not fear God – or his Father. But there was a restlessness in his breast that kept him from sleep. He could feel that what he had done would change the game entirely, yet he did not know how: who would be the star players, what were the new rules? It was important that he knew, and he _ought to know_ – but for once he didn’t.

He thought that that might be because of his Father: it all still depended too much on his Father. That would not change as long as he was a Cardinal, he knew that. The skirts confounded him and they mocked him. They’d mocked him after Juan had lost the battle at Forlì and he could do nothing but watch, when Lucrezia walked up to the altar to that Sforza pig and he could do nothing but watch, and in this very moment, when he had brought about such fundamental change, had grabbed Fortune by its throat and squeezed, and _still he could do nothing but watch._

But all this had been true before the murder, too, and he had thought that out carefully: nurtured the plan like a babe. Fratricide _was_ a delicate thing, and a long time coming.

Then why did he feel so restless, and dare he say it, nervous? Did he have doubts about whether or not it had been the right thing for the Church, for Italy? Perhaps there was an element to the murder he hadn’t foreseen, after all. Perhaps he’d missed something.

That frightened him, though he would never admit that to anyone, least of all himself.

He didn’t know when he made the decision to go to her, but it was long after Micheletto had gone, and many hours into the night. A sleepy Mila let him in, looking only faintly surprised. She didn’t enter the bedroom with him, because she knew better.

She was sleeping soundly. Lying on her side, her golden head on the corner of her cushion instead of on it, and her hands clasped below her chin: small and fragile and precious like an angel. He wanted to sit beside her and hover over her like a protective shield, but he just sat down at the end of her bed, careful not to wake her.

He sat like that for some time, working himself into a trance-like state. Finally he felt a merciful serenity descend on him, and he thought that if he put his head down now, stretched himself out on the space beside her, he might fall asleep.

He leaned his head back against one of the wooden pillars that supported the bed’s canopy and closed his eyes.

He did not quite fall asleep, but his thoughts were an incoherent tangle for a while. He only knew that he hadn’t been focused because he noticed that she’d turned on her back. He shook his head to pull himself together again; wondered if he should leave.

She frowned and fretted, and he stayed.

‘Hm,’ she said.

She woke gently then, her eyelids peeling away layers of darkness one by one until they framed another kind of darkness, sitting there at the foot of her bed. He didn’t smile at her, or feel like he had to.

She didn’t show any signs of having been caught off guard, only gave him a tiny, sleepy smile – giving the impression almost that she’d known he was there.

She reached out for his hand, which lay on his lap, just out of her reach. He didn’t return the gesture immediately, so she let her arm drop down heavily on the bed and looked at him with inquiring blue eyes. He avoided her gaze and looked longingly at the empty space next to her. He was so very sleepy now, but he wouldn’t let himself go to sleep. He had the distinct feeling that he didn’t deserve it anymore.

‘I dreamt about you,’ she said in a soft voice. Her eyes closed and he thought she might fall asleep again.

‘You did?’ He whispered, watching her with something close to envy. He really longed for sleep; he was more tired than he had ever been in his life.

‘Yes,’ was her reply. ‘An ordinary sort of dream. Quite unremarkable. But so lovely, Cesare.’

‘Why?’

‘We were dancing in a meadow at the break of dawn. The light was beautiful.’

He smiled to himself, because he knew that she loved dawn; she’d said once that that was the most beautiful kind of light there was. It had been night then, and the moon had been full and luscious and luminous. He’d looked at the way the moonlight created a ghostly halo around her, making her blonde hair look silver. “Don’t you think?” She’d asked, mistaking his attentiveness for scrutiny. “I much prefer the moonlight,” he’d replied, and he’d lifted her chin so her head would face the moon. “But come break of dawn, I think I shall prefer that.” And she’d smiled.

‘You were holding Giovanni high up in the air,’ she went on now. ‘And twirling around. We were all laughing, and there were flowers everywhere. Pointless dream, isn’t it?’

But he didn’t think it was pointless at all. In fact, he knew exactly why she had had that dream, and he didn’t like that he’d been the one to star in it, instead of a drunken Juan – even if his presence had seemed harmless. He looked down at his hands, expecting them to turn up bloody. He didn’t mind, usually, but he didn’t want her to see.

‘Have _you_ dreamt, Cesare?’ She asked. Her eyes were open again and set on him, he could feel it.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I dreamt that I drowned a cat.’

He didn’t know why he said that. Maybe because there was truth to it and because he wanted to see what she would think. He looked up at her and saw that she didn’t look disapproving.

‘What sort of cat?’ She asked.

‘A stray. He was quite miserable.’

‘Perhaps death was a kindness, then.’

He was glad that she didn’t reject him or his dream, but it was a perverted kind of joy, because she wasn’t supposed to think that death could be kind, or gentle, ever.

‘Do you think I am kind?’ He asked her, hoping that she would say yes but thinking that it ought to be no.

‘When you want to be,’ she answered. She stretched out her hand again, and this time he took it into his own. She interlaced her small fingers with his large ones and squeezed. He looked at the tangle of flesh.

‘Do you want to be?’ She asked him. He met her eyes, big and blue and searching, and for the first time, he felt guilt. He wasn’t sure about what, but he assumed it was because of the stray cat.

He untangled his fingers from hers and stood up from the bed. He felt how her eyes followed his movements and he wished they wouldn’t.

To get away from them, he went into the adjoining room where Giovanni lay in his cradle. The child was sound asleep and angelic as his mother, though he could scream frightfully when awake. One simply had to hold him vertically along one’s body and press his little head to one’s breast, just about at the height of one’s heart. The sound apparently soothed the child.

He thought it might be better not to touch the babe, knowing the cacophony would wake the entire palace, but he couldn’t keep himself from sticking out his finger and stroking the little white cap Giovanni wore to keep his head warm. He bowed down to lean on the side of the cradle and look at the sleep of the innocent. The blanket had been pulled down a little, and he readjusted it. Then he just had to feel the child’s chubby cheek and he leaned in further to place a kiss on its head, as light as a feather.

Two arms reached around his waist and joined in the middle to form a tight circle around him. He hadn’t heard her come in and gripped the side of the cradle more firmly in his surprise. She folded herself against him, fitting her torso against his bent back and laying her head between his shoulder blades. She noticed that she’d startled him and he felt her smile through his shirt. She lifted her head and blew on his neck. ‘Poor baby,’ she said.

‘I don’t know, he does not appear overly dissatisfied to me,’ he answered stoically.

She smiled again, retracted one arm and stroked the back of his head. There appeared to be some confusion as to who the child was, but he didn’t mind.

‘Are you very unhappy, Crezia?’ He asked her.

‘What makes you say that?’ She asked, her breath and hands both caught in his hair.

He stayed silent, and she understood what he meant.

‘Sometimes I forget about it,’ she said after thinking a while.

He understood and he knew that it had been getting harder to forget, with his brother spiralling further and further out of control. But he had fixed that for her.

_For her?_

Yes, he recognized that as the truth now. He hadn’t thought about it before, though, not in all his premeditations; not even in the moment he’d thrust the knife forward.

‘It will be better,’ he told her brusquely.

‘Can you see the future, brother? Or will you speak to God for me, and ask him to make sure the future is good?’ She teased him, and tickled his neck.

‘Oh, I have spoken to him already, last night in fact. I said that it was monstrous, the way he has been handling our lives. He agreed to be more gentle with them in future.’

‘My brother the Cardinal,’ she mused.

He sighed deeply and stroked the cheek of the child again. He wasn’t careful enough this time, so that Giovanni woke up from the touch. He stared up at Cesare for a moment with a perplexed, curious look on his young face. Then he opened his pouty mouth and started bellowing.

She felt his muscles tense through his shirt and rubbed his back the way she might do with her wailing child. He reached into the cradle and took Giovanni into his arms, making the baby scream even louder. ‘I have upset him,’ he said, almost more upset by this than the child was, despite its loudness.

She tsk-ed. ‘No you haven’t. He is hungry.’ He felt the warmth and pressure of her body against his decrease and then she was gone from his back. He shivered and bent himself over the crying child, rocking it and saying non-sensical things. The wailing became less insistent and died down to a trickle of miserable sobs after a minute.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her re-enter the room, and he turned to give her a triumphant look. She had left to put away her robe and undo the lacing on her shift. Her exposed breast was cream-coloured and heavy.

At that moment, a female voice came from the adjoining bedroom: ‘Oh, my,’ it said.

He’d had his back to the doorway and had to turn around to see who it was. Another servant, Estelle, had been awoken by the child’s screams and stood looking at them, visibly uncomfortable. When she saw the child in his arms, some little muscle around her mouth relaxed and she recovered herself, saying ‘My lady.’ That slight change in her face and voice irritated him so much that he thought Giovanni might feel the rise in his heartbeat and start crying again.

His sister didn’t seem to register Estelle’s reaction. ‘Estelle,’ she said, with a little nod. ‘I’m sorry that Giovanni woke you.’

‘Not a bother, my lady,’ Estelle said.

Cesare was still irritated, though, so he focused on the child in his arms again. He found the crying considerably less bothersome now.

‘Thank you for looking in. Go back to sleep, now,’ she said to the servant.

‘My lady, my lord Borgia,’ Estelle replied, and then she retreated.

Slowly and careful so as not to re-alarm the baby, he carried Giovanni over to where his sister stood. She was leaning against the right wall and seemed entirely unaware of her exposed breast. He leaned in to transfer the baby to her arms. She took Giovanni from him and turned the boy against her breast so that he could latch on to her nipple. He watched as the baby fed, mildly intrigued.

‘He can be vicious. Bites me, the little monster,’ she said, when she saw him look.

He chuckled and then turned his eyes away from her and the baby. ‘I’ll leave you to it, sister. Forgive me for waking him up. And you,’ he said. He wanted to walk over to kiss her cheek, but decided that it would be impractical now and headed for the doorway instead.

‘Ces,’ she called after him. ‘Is there somewhere you need to be?’

He frowned. ‘No. Only my bed,’ he said. He noticed then that it was already dawn and that he would sleep half the day away. It didn’t really bother him; he did that often enough. But he grinned at her and told her: ‘Good night, sis.’

‘Ces,’ she said again. She repositioned Giovanni and he glimpsed the creamy skin and the pink nipple.

He blinked and quickly turned away from her, ready to go far away from whatever was in the little nursery room. ‘What, Crezia?’

‘If you have no pressing matters, I would speak with you about something. Will you wait for me? Only a few more moments, I think.’ She nodded down at Giovanni.

He thought he should leave, but then he couldn’t ever refuse her anything. So he felt himself nod, and then he went back to her bedroom to wait. He sat down on the bed, where the bedcovers were pushed to the side and her robe lay, discarded without thought. The sheets were still warm.

He waited for more than five minutes, but he never called out to her: he could hear her softly singing to the baby, so he knew she was there, and besides, he didn’t mind waiting. When the moments passed by, and the songs went on, he sighed and lay back on the bed, with his feet still touching the ground. Then he grew cold, and sleepy, and without thinking about it – in fact, he wasn’t really thinking about anything anymore – he kicked off his boots, pulled his feet onto the bed and pulled the bedsheets close around him. He was asleep within seconds.


	2. The Florentine  Ambassador

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare wakes up in Lucrezia's room and, feeling somewhat unnerved, he has a meeting with the ambassador of Florence to discuss the death of a man.

He woke around noon the next day, still bone-tired and somewhat frustrated – he doubted that either of those feelings would ever leave him – but grateful that he had slept at all. Lucrezia was not there, but she had taken his boots off at some point and even had a clean shirt brought for him, which lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed.

He pressed his face into the soft cushions for a moment in an attempt to call back that tranquil nothingness of sleep. Her scent crept into his nostrils and for an unguarded moment, one that felt deceptively like a dream and something quite far removed from his own consciousness or responsibility, he saw her: leaning against a heavy oak dresser, arms hugging her midriff, eyes twinkling and taking him in with the – _her_ – baby in his arms. And then her robe that was parted in the middle, casually revealing that soft, sloping breast with the nipple like a crown and an invitation.

‘He can be vicious,’ she murmured, but she wasn’t speaking to him.

He was caressing the baby’s head because he’d been crying, but then the baby was gone and his hand was stroking the breast he’d been looking at. He wanted to lower his head and take her nipple into his mouth – but this sudden change of scenery, from holding her baby to holding _her_ in his hand, was too abrupt, and his foggy mind at once recognized its own fogginess – not to mention its error, which was grave and fundamental.

With the sudden agility and quickness of a cornered cat, Cesare catapulted himself out of the bed and stood at a safe distance from it. He stared down on the rumpled sheets feeling almost as if they’d betrayed him, for keeping him warm and comfortable but all the while abusing his unguardedness by putting strange pictures in his mind.

He quickly dressed and left the room after that, shaking his head continuously.

He encountered Micheletto some two hallways beyond Lucrezia’s chambers. His henchman had been leaning against a window pane and scrutinizing the odd cardinal or servant that passed him by (and they, it must be said, did everything they could _not_ to look in his direction). He pushed himself away from the pane as soon as he saw his master rounding the corner.

Cesare realized that Micheletto had been waiting for him here because he’d known where he’d been – not because Lucrezia had sent word, but because it was Micheletto’s job to know such things. Cesare would not have been bothered by this normally, but with that half-dream he’d just had, not to mention the night that preceded it, he felt guilty and ashamed in finding Micheletto so close by.

‘Any news?’ He asked brusquely, without slowing down. He didn’t quite know where he was heading, but he couldn’t bare to stop and look his omniscient henchman in the eyes. Oh, omniscient indeed: Micheletto had shared in most of his sins, the one from last night not excluded.

_How can I look Father in the eye if I cannot even look at a co-conspirator, and my closest confidant?_

But he was confusing different things now, he reminded himself: his dead brother was not related to his little sister. Or ought not be.

‘No, my Lord,’ Micheletto said by way of reply, after he’d picked up his pace to match Cesare’s furious steps. Of course Cesare hadn’t expected there to be any word – they’d thrown the body into the Tiber, so it wasn’t likely to show up any time soon – but he felt compelled to ask. It was almost as if the whole matter couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him, if he had to ask about it.

‘But there is word from the Florentine ambassador. He requests an audience,’ Micheletto said.

Cesare mood improved somewhat, not in the least because he’d taken a liking to the Florentine ambassador. Even better, it seemed that the ambassador was nothing short of in _awe_ with him, always shooting him looks of fascination and curiosity which he doubtlessly thought Cesare wouldn't notice.

‘Is the friar dead, do you think?’ Cesare asked, referring to the Florentine heretic that had so recently tried to take on his family – and had been badly burned for it.

‘One hopes,’ was Micheletto’s answer.

‘Indeed. Tell the ambassador that I will receive him at Nones, in the grand hall.’

About two hours later, the Florentine ambassador was led into the great hall behind the Sala del Credo. He was a slight man, with hair the colour of mice, pale skin and a slight frame beneath his red giornea, which looked rather frayed for a man of his station. But if one took a close look at his face, this initial impression was soon nullified: for a little, knowing smile played continuously at the corner of the man’s thin lips, and his eyes moved quickly and sharply in their sockets, speaking of an astute intelligence and, perhaps, cunning.

Cesare sat at the large dining table in the middle of the hall, with a cup of wine in hand, pitcher of wine nearby (which he drank more of than was his habit) and a plate filled with grapes, sweat meats and cheeses on the table in front of him (which he ignored). He had replaced his cardinal’s robes for a black brocade doublet, green silk breeches and a clean shirt, even though Lucrezia had laid out a perfectly clean one for him on her bed.

He wasn’t supposed to dress like a layman when fulfilling his cardinal duties, but if there was one thing he could bear even less than the shirt that smelled of her sheets (well, it was unlikely that it actually smelled like she did, but he couldn’t get past the idea that it did), it was his cardinal’s robes. He was hardly a devout man, but even he could appreciate the blatant hypocrisy of wearing them after what he’d done this past night. He didn’t think the ambassador would hold this against him – and he certainly did not care about God being offended by the absence of that horrid red frock.

‘Signor Machiavelli,’ he greeted the ambassador, who walked unhurriedly down the hall.

‘My lord Borgia,’ came the latter’s reply, along with a slight dip of his head. One corner of his mouth curled upwards, giving him a rather dark expression.

Cesare gestured for the man to sit to one side of him and gave a signal to one of the servants to bring them an extra goblet. Machiavelli sat down and they both waited in comfortable silence until the servant had set a glinting copper cup on the table and filled it with the wine from the pitcher.

‘May we toast to a man’s death today, Signor, or would that be in extremely bad taste?’ Cesare asked. He'd already put his cup to his lips when he realized that the man he had in mind was not in fact friar Girolamo Savonarola.

‘Not so much in bad taste as precipitous, I’m afraid, my Lord,’ Machiavelli said.

Cesare lowered his glass and narrowed his eyes at the ambassador. ‘Savonarola has confessed, no?’

Machiavelli tilted his head slightly to the side, as if it were a difficult question that required a detailed answer. ‘He has,’ he said slowly. ‘Unfortunately he has had word from God, who apparently opposes his confession. The friar refused to sign the document when it was brought to him.’

Cesare would have laughed if he hadn’t been so annoyed. ‘That is unfortunate, yes,’ he agreed, without entirely hiding his dismay at the news. ‘On what grounds does God oppose, may I ask? The wording of the document?’

‘Oh, it shouldn’t surprise me, my lord. If things continue in this vein, God might soon ask the humble friar to arrange another ecumenical council,’ Machiavelli said. He didn’t seem shaken by Cesare’s obvious irritation; in fact, he rather seemed to share it, if only bearing it in a lighter spirit.

‘And he would be able to do it, too, seeing as he is still _alive_ ,’ Cesare said sharply. ‘The Church gave its permission to start legal proceedings weeks ago. Pray tell me, Signor Machiavelli, why is the Signoría allowing a piece of parchment to stand between the friar and death?’

‘The Republic insists on a confession, because it considers a confession to be in line with its political principles,’ Machiavelli answered, but in a rather formal, detached way. He picked at the grapes on the table and then chewed on them as if the taste intrigued him far more than the issue at hand did.

Cesare watched the ambassador, waiting, but the ambassador seemed oblivious.

‘It seems that Florence’s political principles are not compatible with the principles of a religious fanatic,’ Cesare said at last, then concluded ominously: ‘And on this, the Church may have to agree with the friar.’

Machiavelli’s eyes were on the ceiling, but they shot Cesare a quick glance with those last words. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured. He took his cup of wine and swivelled the drink around before he took a sip. ‘It is imperative, absolutely imperative that the friar dies. Florence is perhaps more dedicated to his death than even the Church is, whom he has offended so.’

‘Why? Because you still have to bear the sound of his voice?’

‘Because the friar is a relic of a forgotten time: the French king he praised so much is gone, the terror of his armies along with him; the Medici have fled and the old ways are making room for a new order…’

‘I would not be so sure about that,' Cesare interrupted. He didn’t believe for a second that the old ways had gone, particularly in the infantile Republic of Florence: radical change had a way of bringing the extremes of past and present together in a monstrous manner. 'There is a new king in France, and he is looking at Italy as if she were a young virgin,' he explained. 

‘And she will no doubt prostitute herself anew,’ Machiavelli said. He looked at Cesare’s face with a familiar expression of curiosity mixed with childish delight. ‘However, the citizens of Florence do not see this young King Louis in distant France; they see the hindquarters of the last French king marching through their land, and they see the friar who not only stripped them of their precious possessions, but invited that very king to strip them of whatever they had left.’

‘Am I to deduce that Florence’s citizens do not care for this confession the Republic insists upon?’

‘Suffice to say that they would pay generously for the chance to take the torturer’s place at the rack, my lord,’ said Machiavelli, and stopped there for a moment, fearing perhaps that if he went on, he would say too much. His lips curled in a tiny, not entirely voluntary smile again, and he went on, also not entirely of his own volition but because of the curious magnetism of that dark-haired prince who sat at his side. He said: ‘They wished to see Savonarola suspended from the end of a rope yesterday, but today they insisted on the process of stoning him to death. In the absence of those possibilities, they have set their eyes on Savonarolan supporters. Francesco Valori is the most recent man to suffer at the hands of the Florentine mob. It stands to reason that this is a very delicate and undesired situation for the Republic, even if the Signoría does not fully appreciate the gravity of her predicament.’

Cesare craned his head, and his eyes glinted when he spoke. ‘You fear they will rebel against the Florentine government.’

Machiavelli cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. ‘I fear that the Medici might take advantage of the situation…’ He said, and let the end of his sentence hang in the air.

Cesare caught his meaning and said in a flat tone: ‘Rest assured, Signor Machiavelli. The Church does not conspire with the Medici, nor do we pray on the overthrow of the Republic. However, this delay in the… legal proceedings _,_ as it were, is a stain on the Church and as you say yourself, on Florence. This reliance on his confession is folly, and dangerous.’

‘They are convinced that he will break on the rack.’

‘I am not,’ Cesare said, and almost added: _neither are you_. Machiavelli was not one to parade his inner thoughts on his face, but Cesare could still detect the man’s impatience with the Signoría.

Rapidly, he came to a decision. ‘Have him send Savonarola to Rome. My henchman is quite adapt when it comes to the rack, and he is not much hindered by Republican principles or, for that matter, a Florentine mob.’

Machiavelli shook his head. ‘The Signoría wishes to keep the friar in Florence, my Lord. It would be better if he were to meet his death in the central Piazza.’

‘Another political principle?’ Cesare scoffed. ‘Surely Rome is as convenient a place to die as Florence. It is a more _likely_ place to die, beyond a doubt. Besides, heretic or no, Savonarola was ordained and so he officially falls under Church jurisdiction. Florence has received permission to deal with him in spite of this, but if they fail to help the friar to the afterlife… well, then he must die in Rome.’

‘These are harsh times, and harsher still for a free government,’ Machiavelli replied evenly. ‘It is important that the people are able to vent their animosity, in a legal fashion and in front of their own eyes: otherwise chaos will spread and we risk a rebellion against the state. To bring Savonarola to Rome would cause many repetitions of the Francesco Valori case, and this will not benefit anyone; not the Republic of Florence, nor Rome.’

‘A government, free or no, must be decisive as well, especially when it is young,’ Cesare remarked.

Machiavelli set his eyes on him again, and Cesare thought he glimpsed that gleam of delight again. ‘Indeed it must,’ the ambassador said. ‘Florence will see this man burn, this is without question; and the Republic will mature in the process. But Savonarola must die in Florence.’

‘The Republic will not make any concessions on that point?’ Cesare asked.

‘I’m afraid not, my Lord.’

Cesare stared at the table, thinking, while Machiavelli silently regarded him.

Finally he said: ‘I will bring the matter to the Pope’s attention. Thank you, Signor Machiavelli.’

‘My Lord Borgia,’ said signor Machiavelli, then he dipped his head down and smiled again.


	3. The Parts We Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pope summons Cesare, and Cesare finds his Father in a rather restless mood. He ponders his actions and his words carefully, but finds that he has some difficulty seperating politics from personal matters.

He’d planned to meet his Father the day afterwards. It was already close to six when Cesare had the time to go, and he knew that the Pope did not like to miss Vespers. After Vespers, it was simply too late to discuss politics, or so Cesare told himself.

In truth, his day had been long enough without also having to face up to his Father. For one thing, he’d found out that Girolamo Savonarola was still a living and breathing nuisance for Florence _and_ the Church, which annoyed him and was sure to annoy his Father as well. More bad news was the last thing anyone needed at this moment. For another, he was continuously haunted by his sister standing against the backdrop of an oak dresser, a ridiculously persistent figment of his imagination that kept fading in and out of the disturbing image of his dying brother – or a bleeding lump of flesh flying through the air and into the arms of the Tiber.

It had been a long day indeed. The very fact that the sun still shone irritated Cesare: he longed to fade into the night and look for some kind of cover. He was not quite so lucky, for the Pope sent for him halfway through Vespers. Cesare did not take this as a good sign, and thought it wise to change back into his cardinal’s robes before going to see his Father.

He found the Pope pacing his study in the tower. He whirled around when he heard Cesare’s footsteps, sending his cream-coloured garments flying through the air.

‘Oh,’ he said upon seeing his son, without bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice. Cesare felt a red-hot hatred swell in his breast, directed at his brother.

This was a strangely comforting emotion; he hadn’t expected hatred to outlast death, but then hatred had _inspired_ this particular death – so to stop hating after the act would be paradoxical. Cesare took care to keep his expression still, however, for he had resolved to appear calm and reasonable – or at the very least, not suspect. Even though the Pope likely didn’t know of his favourite child’s demise as of yet, once he learned of what had happened, Cesare did not want him to think back to this moment.

But his father didn’t see anything, suspect or not, on Cesare’s face, because he’d already turned away. He picked up the pacing again for a few seconds, seemed to realize what he was doing and then went to sit down on a leather-covered chair that had some papers still on it. He didn’t seem to realize this fact, but Cesare noted it with some irritation.

‘Have you seen your brother today?’ His father asked.

And there it was, the much dreaded, oh so dangerous question, even though Cesare had seen it coming a mile away.

He kept his face perfectly serene and his eyes focused on his Father’s face. He was ready for his Father to return the look so that he could see that there was nothing to be found, not a shred of evidence on his son’s face.

Not a shred of remorse.

‘No, Father,’ Cesare said, and he waited.

‘You did not encounter Cardinal Sforza, before you came here?’ The Pope asked, eyes still looking at something in the distance.

‘No. Father,’ Cesare repeated. He stood there while the moments passed, to give his father a last chance to take a proper look at him. When it didn’t happen, Cesare gave up and walked over to an austere, pew-like bench that was placed against the right wall, a few feet away from the chair that the Pope occupied. He picked at the rough wood of the armrest while he waited some more. His father seemed totally lost in thought.

‘You were at your mother’s last night, were you not?’

‘Yes,’ Cesare answered calmly. He had seen this question coming, too. ‘We dined together.’

‘Oh,’ was the response, and he thought the topic closed. Then the Pope asked: ‘Was your sister at this gathering?’

This mention of Lucrezia unnerved him for several reasons, but Cesare kept a stony face as he answered for the third time: ‘No, Father.’

‘Hm.’

‘Why?’

‘I feared they might have had a row. Ah, you know, Giovanni’s baptism…’ The Pope’s large hands swatted tiredly at the air.

‘I know,’ said Cesare sharply.

His Father cleared his throat, and Cesare was sure that he would give a speech about how Cesare was supposed to find middle ground between his sister and brother, how he would have to protect the family by keeping it united – the one task that he hadn’t been able to fulfil, at least not according to his father’s preferences. He would so like to say to him: _sometimes there is no middle ground, Father._ Then he would confess it all. Not out of any sense of guilt necessarily, but a sense of… practicality? Plain logic? Or perhaps the very opposite of guilt, perhaps his confession would be inspired by his pride. Just like Savonarola’s refusal to confess came from a place of pride, instead of from – _the thought!_ – God. Now, pride was something obviously heretical, a truly sinful motive, which is perhaps the real reason that prophets so often find a violent end and the real reason that great and noble families reek of blood.

He shouldn’t lose himself to thoughts like that, though. They weren’t true, honest reflections of him and what he stood for: they were distortions brought on by confusion and lack of sleep, and he ought never to let anyone know about them. Not his father, and certainly not his sister.

He heard an eerie echo of her voice, saying something along the lines of _He can be vicious_. He shook his head to get rid of the voice and the picture that accompanied it and didn’t entirely succeed.

‘Have you slept well?’ His Father asked him, rather unexpectedly. He had set his glinting brown eyes on Cesare at last, a move that Cesare had been too distracted to notice. His heart skipped a few beats, until he saw that his Father looked genuinely concerned rather than accusatory.

‘I cannot say that I have,’ he admitted. ‘But, as they say, I will sleep when I’m old, or dead.’ It was likely to be the latter, but he didn’t say that out loud. The Pope was quite averse to death, particularly that of his family members. Meanwhile his son lay somewhere in the mud of the river bank.

_Oh, what have I done?_

The right thing.

_No, not the right thing: the only thing I could have done._

His father continued to stare at him, but broke into motion when Cesare returned his look.

‘Speaking of the dead,’ he said, again unnerving Cesare. His Father beat his palms on his knees, producing a flat thud, and rose, causing the papers he’d been crushing to fall from the chair. He looked down in mild surprise, but didn’t stoop to pick them up or bother to read what they were. Instead he walked over to the unlit fireplace, hands clutched on his back and head lifted to study the wall above the mantle, which had recently been decorated by Pinturicchio. It depicted a string of majestic women seated on thrones, the personifications of the arts of the Trivium and the Quadrivium. His father was inspecting a particularly sharp-witted-looking woman in blue and green robes, who presided over the art of rhetoric.

‘What of the Florentine friar, Savonarola? We hear he came to his senses at last. Have they burned him yet?’ His father asked. The question seemed rather vulgar even to Cesare, with the woman in the painting looking down on them so sharply.

‘He briefly came to his senses, but then he had a change of heart,’ Cesare said. He wanted to add that this refusal to sign the confession had been caused by the word of God, which was, after all, true according to the great Savonarola. He didn’t, though, because he would probably be berated for sounding insincere and making light of the faith – which was also true and which, incidentally, would _not_ convince his father that he was ill-suited to be a cardinal. If anything, Cesare’s rejection of God as a way of life seemed to make his father more determined to keep him forever tied to his vows.

‘Ah, well, the rack does not a faithful man make,’ the Pope sighed now, still looking at Pinturicchio’s superb painting.

‘Nor a truthful one,’ Cesare said. He regretted it immediately.

The Pope turned around to look at his son. ‘He is a heretic, this Savonarola, make no mistake about that,’ he said, and there was a distinct edge to his voice. ‘We have excommunicated him, and he defied us – but in doing so, he defied God. He has the scorch marks to prove it, Cesare.’

‘Yes, he surely disappointed God,’ Cesare replied, making an effort to sound solemn and cardinal-like. ‘But more importantly, he has disappointed the Florentines, which ought to make the task of punishing him easier. Yet the Republic is hesitant – on account of a fanatic’s confession, a silly stroke of a feather!’ It truly disturbed him. He could envision the glum look on the face of the friar, with his bulbous nose and his black, beady eyes, and most of all that ugly mouth with its uneven and incomplete row of yellowish teeth that glistened with saliva whenever he opened it.

‘Yes,’ his Father said dispassionately. He turned back to face the painting again. ‘The Republic is inexperienced.’

‘And _unstable_.’

His Father finally gave up on the painting and went over to his desk, wearing a heavy frown on his face. ‘The Republic of Florence may not be the most stable partner to the Church, but at least they are not likely to open their doors to a second French king, after what happened with the last,’ he said, as he sat down on the ornate chair behind the desk.

‘People are notoriously forgetful, especially when they are offered a boon,’ Cesare replied.

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know…’ Cesare said impatiently, and he swatted at the air, unconsciously mirroring his Father. ‘Riches, land, the promise to rid Italy of the evil Borgias.’ He chuckled, but when the Pope looked singularly unamused, both his smile and sarcasm faded. ‘We cannot count on the Florentines to take up arms for us in the case of a second invasion. Which is sure to arrive, Father.’

His Father nodded and didn’t say anything else.

‘What of the Holy League? There is no hope at all that it can guard us against Louis?’

‘Oh, no, I should think not,’ the Pope replied. He sat up straight and leaned with his elbows on the wooden surface of his desk. ‘Such alliances can only be temporary, and despite its… relative success, we must see it as a sign of the Church’s weakness. We nearly lost everything for it, but God has guided us through it.’

‘And where is our army now, Father? Where is our strength?’ Cesare felt the onset of an age-old debate, but as always, it had to be held.

Father glared at him, undoubtedly realizing the same thing. ‘We are progressing,’ he said.

‘Stagnating,’ Cesare corrected him. ‘If you would let me-’

‘No!’ His Father interrupted forcefully. ‘There is ample room for battle inside these walls, Cesare, I will not have you search for fights outside of them. Besides, if we mean to restore Florence to peace, we must get rid of this friar. He has been a thorn in our side for long enough. It is imperative that he burns.’

Cesare suppressed a sigh. ‘There is no scenario in which the friar does not die,’ he said, and realized that the Florentine ambassador had said that to him that afternoon.

‘Because God wants it to be so. But _we_ are still left with our devices, are we not? Which is why it must be done correctly. We will require a confession, and you shall obtain it if Florence cannot.’ The Pope’s eyes glinted again, this time with a rather shrewd touch.

When he found Cesare to be uncharacteristically silent, he said with some emphasis: ‘The Church will be served best if you adhere to your spiritual duties, Cesare.’

_And is torture part of a cardinal’s spiritual duties, Father? For that is what I will have to do._

But Cesare didn’t ask that. He was already walking a thin line, and besides, he wasn’t as rash with words or as openly impudent as Juan was. _Had been._

He was the dutiful son, and the living one.

He noted very clearly that part of him kept expecting to feel guilt at the thought of Juan, not because of the murder itself but because he stood in front of his father who didn’t know about it, and should. He still couldn’t help but feel an increasing amount of disdain for his dead brother.

‘Indeed,’ he said to his Father, thinking that even if he wouldn’t be able to see the guilt on his face, he might see the anger and the resentment that Cesare had long ago internalized. But the Pope didn’t quite see what any onlooker would have, because he had a different kind of story locked within his breast – one that was decidedly brighter and more hopeful than Cesare’s.

Perhaps he did sense Cesare’s uncertainty, because he looked his son in the eyes and said slowly: ‘Your duty is to the Church, my son, and the Church is served in different ways. The same is true for your family.’

‘And what is my role in the family, father?’ _Careful,_ he thought, _you are the dutiful son._

‘That of a brother,’ the Pope said sternly. But then his face sagged, and he looked more like the old man he essentially was, but refused to be. ‘We had not meant to worry you with this, but we feel... we feel we must. Juan has not come home last night, and we worry about him. We should like you to find him and ensure that he is alright, as a brother.’

‘He will come home. He always comes home.’

‘Yes, yes, our daughter has informed us of the same thing, but we have a feeling that will not leave us today. At least Lucrezia agreed to see her suiters; we can be pleased about that, if not about anything else.’

Cesare looked at his Father sharply, to see if there was any accusation there for not delivering Savonarola’s head on a platter. His Father was looking at the fireplace, and so Cesare let the heat surge in his chest subside.

‘Seeing is still far removed from accepting,’ he said.

His Father gave a dry chuckle. ‘We need not be reminded, least of all by you,’ he scoffed, then closed his eyes and started massaging his forehead with one hand.

‘Me?’

‘It _was_ your knife that gutted the lord Giovanni Sforza, if we recall correctly. _’_

_Ah, that old story._

‘The Sforza’s would have rebelled against us whether that pig who called himself Lucrezia’s husband was alive or not – certainly after Juan’s brutal treatment of Caterina’s son. Our alliance with the Sforza’s was a bad one from the start,’ Cesare said, not without bitterness in his voice. Of course he was thinking mainly about that terrible marriage and the way that Lucrezia had spoken of the marital bed. He didn’t think that that made his observation any less true or objective, though.

‘You disliked Giovanni Sforza from the start, and that certainly did not help matters,’ his Father grunted. ‘So perhaps you can attempt to do the opposite for your sister’s second husband? You might even encourage her to find one, since she does not listen to us, or to her mother.’

‘And would that fall under my duties as a cardinal or as a brother?’

‘It is also in _your_ best interest if Lucrezia is married as soon as possible.’

Cesare was willing to dispute that. His own interests and preferences may align with those of the Church most of the time, but not when it came to marrying Lucrezia off. He had never been a fan of the concept, and he doubted that any good brother in Italy was.

‘I will speak with her,’ he said, in spite of this. He was her protector, after all, and by staying involved he could have some control over matters. And at the thought of being her good guardian bother, and at the very thought of seeing her even to discuss what was essentially an unpleasant thing, he finally managed to ban the image of her naked breast to the very back of his mind.


	4. To  Find a Safe Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time that day, Cesare seeks out Lucrezia in her chambers to speak to her about her second marriage.

He made his way to her chambers immediately after his Father had dismissed him. He didn’t see the point in putting this off, even if he longed for the day to be over, and it always felt like a betrayal if he kept her waiting whether she was expecting him or not. Plus, the poetry of starting and ending the day in her room was not completely lost on him.

He had no desire whatsoever to encounter her maids, however. He was thankful enough that the girls had been gone that morning when he woke and pushed his nose in his sister’s sheets. So instead of going through Lucrezia’s antechambers, he passed by the guards and used the entrance on the other side that led through one small bedchamber meant for a nurse, and then Giovanni’s nursery . There was a strong possibility that there would be at least one maid looking after the baby, but with any luck at all it would not be one of Lucrezia’s personal ladies.

He opened the door quietly, slid in and looked around before he closed the door behind him. There was no one in the bedchamber, but when he walked to the room beyond, he saw the nurse standing there with Giovanni in her arms. She didn’t hear him come in, but there was no point in trying to deceive her when she might get frightened and drop the baby.

So he gently peeled himself away from the shadows of the doorpost, and made sure to speak only when she perceived of him.

‘Hello,’ he said simply, when he knew that she’d noticed. The woman’s eyes widened a little, but otherwise she was remarkably composed. He didn’t think he’d seen her before. She was rather comely, with hair as black as his, tanned skin and round eyes of a light green colour that one often sees on women from across the Mediterranean. Her skin, though by no means wrinkled, wasn’t completely smooth either, and he estimated that she was about ten years older than him.

‘My lord Borgia,’ she nodded. She had a slight accent that he couldn’t place. That and the fact that she didn’t seem to wonder or care where he’d come from, or why he hadn’t entered through the front, made her seem somehow suspect.

He found himself waiting for her to say something else, about the baby or about the whereabouts of his sister, but she stayed silent and regarded him coolly over the head of little Giovanni.

‘My sister?’ He asked at last.

‘The Lady Borgia is not here at the moment,’ the woman told him. She didn’t elaborate. Was this resentment against him? He tried to see a defiant spark in her pale green eyes, but it wasn’t there.

He looked at her, feeling somewhat strange – not least of all because most women, particularly servants, were either afraid of him or attracted to him. This woman seemed to be trying to reverse that dynamic.

He transferred his gaze to Giovanni. The baby was awake and although he wasn’t crying, his wriggling indicated that he would just as soon escape the woman’s arms.

Cesare went over to the woman’s side and held out his hands. The woman only hesitated a second before transferring the fussing baby to Cesare’s arms. Then she took a step back and stood stiffly before the accursed oak dresser. Cesare found that he couldn’t look at it and turned away.

The baby had started wriggling more wildly after it had been passed on, and he tried to soothe it by rocking it slightly. After a brief struggle, Giovanni fixated on the large silver cross that hung across Cesare’s breast. He took it in his plump little fingers and tried to bite it, which Cesare thought was entirely appropriate.

He sensed the woman looking at him, and he turned to see why, in spite of the dresser. The woman’s face was totally blank. There was nothing to indicate that she even _had_ thoughts. _She might just be the perfect servant_ , he thought, but scratched that immediately on account of her strangeness.

He turned his attention back to Giovanni, who was now trying to pull at the tiny red buttons of his robes and cooing.

‘What is your name?’ Cesare asked without looking back.

‘Agathonica, your eminence.’

‘Where are you from?’ He asked, though he could hazard a guess. Hungary, perhaps.

‘I was born in Mystras,’ she replied, again yielding no further information even though it would ordinarily be warranted – but Cesare was by means an unworldly cardinal.

‘You are from the Ottoman Empire,’ he said. ‘In the very north, across from Naples, is it not?’

‘Yes, your eminence. It lies in a place that they call the Despotate of the Morea,’ she said.

He nodded. Giovanni had had enough of the buttons and was wriggling again. He patted the baby and held him higher against his chest, so that the baby’s head was at the level of his heart. Giovanni could not care less, unfortunately, and Cesare struggled to keep the baby calm.

‘You are a long way from home, Agathonica. Have you been here long?’ he asked, when he’d managed to direct the baby’s grasping fingers back to his frock’s buttons.

‘Four years now, your eminence. My father is a scholar. He worked as a translator for the Medici previously,’ the woman replied. Well, seeing as the Medici were no longer in Florence, it wasn’t altogether surprising that she and her father had sought their fortune elsewhere. Cesare wouldn’t have chosen Rome, personally, but he supposed that the allure of the ancient city was especially tantalizing for foreigners, or rather, for those not from the Romagna.

‘How did you find Florence?’ He didn’t know why he kept on asking, because he certainly didn’t have any personal interest in this woman’s opinions – but her background, perhaps. There was something not quite normal about her. He wondered if he might be attracted to her, too, but he wasn’t convinced that that was the case.

‘Florence is beautiful, your eminence,’ Agathonica said, which instantly made her about twenty times less interesting to Cesare. It was a typical answer that was successful only to the extent that it revealed her to be a common servant answering a common question.

‘Indeed,’ Cesare said. He saw that Giovanni was falling asleep against his breast and he stroked the boy’s head softly. He thought of sending the woman away, and wished that Lucrezia would come back from wherever she had gone.

‘Of course Florence is unique in that it has made of beauty its trade,’ Agathonica tried bravely.

‘That is because Florence’s primary trade is gold itself,’ Cesare replied. He was whispering now, because Giovanni slept. ‘But your father the scholar will have experienced that, I expect. Did he work for Lorenzo or Piero?’

‘Piero, your eminence.’

That surprised him somewhat, because he’d thought it would have been Lorenzo; Piero had not possessed the funds his father had had, or at least, he hadn’t held on to them for long. Nor had he held on to anything else – how long was it since he’d fled Florence, five years now? He’d have to ask Signor Machiavelli about this, if he had the chance.

‘Pity,’ Cesare said to Agathonica. ‘I hear he is hardly a shadow of Il Magnifico.’ He went to the cradle and bent over carefully to put Giovanni down. The baby made a sound when Cesare’s arms disappeared, but didn’t wake. Cesare drew the linen blankets up and tucked the child in. As he was doing this, he heard noises coming from the bedroom: a door opening, feet shuffling, orders being given in a voice that he knew well.

He turned back to Giovanni shortly to stroke his cheek, then moved away from the cradle and the nurse and went into the adjoining room. Lucrezia was just taking her giornea off. She had already dismissed the maids, so she was alone in her bedchambers.

‘Cesare!’ She exclaimed when she saw him. She sounded so pleased that his father’s disappointed-sounding greeting from earlier melted away.

She threw a look over her shoulder, to the doors that barred her chamber from the anteroom. ‘Estelle didn’t say-’

‘Estelle didn’t see me come in,’ he interrupted her.

She gave him a sly smile. ‘Deceiving the servants, now, brother?’

He went to her bed and sat down on the side. ‘She’s curious,’ he said, though what he meant was that Estelle was a fidgety girl who was much too judgemental for someone of her station. Too judgemental for any station, perhaps. He remembered her look of horror, when she’d seen him looking at Lucrezia’s bare breast. He wondered briefly what Agathonica would have done, had she been there instead of Estelle.

‘All servants are curious,’ Lucrezia said. She was smiling, but Cesare had some difficulty softening up on the matter.

‘There is no reason for me to condone or accept such behaviour,’ he said stiffly. Actually, he didn’t even care about the servants. Something simply bothered him, probably the same thing that had kept him from sleeping the night before. His only comfort was that Lucrezia knew this: it was entirely possible that she, contrary to their Father, could see that ancient root of anger in him as clearly as she saw his face.

She walked up to him and sought his hands, which he’d kept folded around the edge of the bed. He thought of keeping them there, but her hands were warm and her presence warmer. She stroked the back and the sides of his hand, then turned them around so that his palms faced upwards. She ran her fingers across the little lines in his skin as if she could see everything in them.

It did a miraculous job of soothing him, which she saw and acknowledged with a little grin. But then she bent forward to meet his hands and to kiss his fingers, and he was aware again of the storm inside his breast cage.

‘We must speak of your marriage, Crezia,’ he said. He didn’t know why he felt so much like ripping his tongue out after the words had left his lips, or why they left such a distinctly unpleasant taste on his tongue.

‘My marriage,’ she repeated. She pulled back her hand, gently but brutally because it was like severing an artery. ‘An unpleasant subject.’

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘A choice must be made,’ he said.

‘I rather thought you did not want me to marry so soon, that it was father who applied the pressure.’

‘I do not want you to marry at all,’ he grunted. ‘I would have kept you in that convent, if I could.’

‘So I am to live in a cold castle, tied to an old man whom I must call husband… or in a dreary cell of a convent, tied to a group of nuns. And both husband and nun are like to despise me for my Borgia heritage. What a choice,’ she said, sounding dismayed, although she ended her sentence with a sad smile.

‘I would confine you to my own room if it were possible, tie you to me,’ he joked. She gave him a critical look, so he gazed down at the tips of his feet that stuck out from beneath his robes.

‘But confinement either way. Must I be confined?’ She asked him.

He looked up to see her grave expression and tried to mirror it. ‘Oh, I should think so,’ he said. ‘Everybody must be confined.’ He tugged at his crimson habit, and saw her expression soften at last.

‘Well, I shouldn’t mind your room very much, nor even to be tied to you,’ she said. She reached out with her hand and let her thumb press down on the cleft in his chin. Her eyes were brilliantly blue.

A short silence ensued that weighed heavier than his red frock, and he didn’t quite know why – nor could he think about it, because she’d removed her hand and went on speaking. ‘But only on the condition that I see you from time to time. The prevailing order of late is that I only see you when you want me to see you, and even that is not very often.’ She sounded genuinely annoyed, which strangely made him feel annoyed as well, and restless.

He stayed on the bed but she started pacing around the room, touching little things on her dresser or picking at the drapes in front of the windows.

‘I seek you out in your chambers, and you are not there,’ she went on, ‘sometimes you seek me out in my chambers, and still you are not _really_ there. You have been a bad brother, Cesare.’

She meant it as a joke, of course, because he couldn’t exactly be blamed for lacking in devotion to her and she well knew it. But there was an edge to it that she couldn’t understand as well as he could: he _had_ been a bad brother, if one understood the notion in a Biblical, Abel-and-Cain type of way. If one understood to _whom_ he had been a bad brother.

She saw something in his face that made her suck in her breath, and for a moment his heart stopped beating. He was deadly afraid that she would find out and hate him, even if the murder had been partly – partly? – for her benefit.

‘Or,’ she said slowly, letting the R roll on her tongue. She had been playing with a hairpin, but she let that fall on the surface of her dresser now. Her fingers wavered on the top, beating out a nervous rhythm against it. ‘ _Or_ I have been a bad _sister_ , by not seeing what is plainly there. Why you are not always in your chambers at night, and why you seem so distracted during the day?’

She was alluding to something, and he feared what it was. ‘Sleep has been avoiding me, of late,’ he said as evenly as he could. His tone of voice only seemed to arouse further suspicion from her.

‘I know,’ she said, squinting her eyes at him. ‘Although perhaps it is the other way around.’

She added an uncertain smile, and finally he understood what she meant.

‘I do not have a lover, sis,’ he said very expressly, and with that hoped the subject of his daily habits closed. He added, with less tact or taste than he’d meant: ‘And neither do you. Something must be done about that, regardless of what you want.’

‘Or _you_ , brother,’ she reminded him sharply.

‘Still.’

She went to the foot of the bed and stared at him from between the pillars and the golden drapes. ‘You sound like father,’ she said.

‘And father is right.’ Again, words not chosen with the same care and finesse he usually aimed for.

‘About what?’ She asked. He could feel her sizing him up.

He said somewhat defensively: ‘About several things. Just today, he told me something that was surprisingly useful. Something to do with God.’

‘That _is_ surprising,’ she said, then sighed and sat down on the foot of the bed, so that they were almost back to back and could only see each other’s faces in profile, if both turned their heads.

‘He said that even if God has already decided on how something is to be, we are still left to decide on the means to reach His end,’ Cesare said.

She knew him well enough not to entertain the factor of religion in that statement, and so she went straight for the practical lesson. ‘You mean Father’s “end”, which is to see me wed. But I have already dictated my own means to that particular end, Cesare: after all, the choice is up to me, largely. I decide, provided that I see some suitors from time to time. What more could I want, aside from total abstention of this obligation of marriage?’ She looked to the side, but Cesare didn’t turn to meet her gaze.

‘A husband who loves you and whom you can love,’ he said. He noticed that he disliked that idea, and didn’t succeed in keeping the bitterness out of his next words. ‘But that will never happen, and so all you have succeeded in doing is buying time. Now time is up. Father is growing impatient, and we will soon have need of a strong alliance.’

He felt Lucrezia turn away from him and look down at her lap. ‘We always have need of a strong alliance,’ she said, and then, after only the slightest hesitation: ‘How would you know that I will never find someone I can love?’

‘You must be married soon, Lucrezia,’ Cesare said.

She stood up abruptly and walked around the bedpost to stand in front of him and glare at him, possibly because he hadn’t answered her question. He inadvertently noticed that she was wearing the blue velvet bodice he’d had made for her. It was truly lovely: it had elegant black patterns on it and a low neckline boarded with a black velvet band and pearls. The creamy fringes of her shift peaked out above it, and gave way to two soft, round hills.

‘Won’t you trust me?’ He asked, though the question might have been addressed to her bodice.

She didn’t answer immediately, and when she did, she sounded resigned and unhappy, as if someone had made her speak. ‘I trust you,’ she said.

He looked up at her large eyes. ‘I do not know much about marriage, sis, or love, but I know that the two are distant cousins at best,’ he told her.

‘So you suggest I abandon my cause and marry another Giovanni Sforza?’

‘No!’ He flared up. He thought she looked pleased at that reaction. ‘No,’ he repeated in a lower voice. ‘Never. But if you cannot marry someone you love, than surely you can marry someone you can tolerate. A friend.’

‘Perhaps you have not noticed. Friends are in rather low supply for Borgias,’ she scoffed.

‘Not for you, my love, you can have all the friends in the world. Not as a Borgia, but as Lucrezia.’ She gave him a queer look that might have been a combination of devotion and love, and it seemed that she was edging closer to him. He felt her dress brush his robes. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off by abruptly standing up.

‘Will you consider it?’ He asked curtly.

She regarded him with some confusion. ‘Yes,’ she said at last.

He moved to leave, but she put her hand on his breast and moved along with him. ‘Won’t you stay?’ she asked.

‘I have to go to Florence, to deal with the friar Savonarola,’ he replied.

She frowned. ‘He lives?’

‘Yes. He has yet to confess.’

She dropped her hand, but he didn’t move.

‘And you are to obtain this confession? A prince of the Church? Why?’ She asked. She had again understood the essential hypocrisy of his religious duties, as opposed to any worldly or military duties, better than his Father had.

He sat back down again.

‘Because unfortunately, the young Republic of Florence does not seem to recognize the depths and the dangers of their failure to expel Savonarola from this earth as swiftly as possible – and I do,’ he said.

‘They mean to show him mercy?’

‘That would be the very death of their dear republic, so I certainly hope not. They are extending his trial in the hopes of getting him to confess, while the mob is pounding on the courthouse doors. It seems that the joy of their republican institutions rings so loudly that they do not hear it.’

She lifted her eyebrows at that cynical remark. ‘The republican form seems successful in Venice,’ she said. ‘Are the Florentines not trying to emulate their designs?’

‘Yes, but in Venice they’re not all idiots, which is a notable difference,’ Cesare answered. ‘The Florentine Signoría doesn’t know good government from a pig’s arse. They have bestowed all their political genius on their ambassadors, it seems, although I cannot say why Signor Machiavelli is so fond of republics. Perhaps he means it as a joke.’ He thought of the slight framework of the ambassador coming down the hall, looking distinctly unimpressive until he opened his mouth.

‘Don’t tell me that you mean to restore Florence to the Medici,’ Lucrezia said, sharp as ever. ‘I have not found Piero de Medici among my suitors yet.’

‘He hasn’t the gold or the balls, for which I am distinctly glad,’ Cesare scoffed. He couldn’t seem to stop his negative laments, and was glad that she was taking it in good humour. ‘No, he was a fool,’ Cesare decided, though Agathonica likely knew Piero better than he did. ‘And we have all seen what damage a prince can do who is a fool… perhaps if he had an able cousin.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ she replied. ‘Italy does not exactly suffer from a lack of Medici.’

‘Or Sforza’s, Orsini, Vitelli…’ Cesare added.

She smiled. ‘But where are all the Borgias?’

‘In a corner,’ he said, thinking about his father and his refusal to let him _in._

‘Holding the keys of Saint Peter,’ she corrected him, and she playfully tugged at his robes.

He looked down at her pale hands that were touching the same buttons her son had fumbled with, and thought the symmetry was amusing. This mild distraction was the singular reason he didn’t see the sparkle in her blue eyes that might have warned him, or the slight movement of her chin. That is how he came to lift his head to look up at her again, and was utterly and honestly surprised to see her face inclining towards his with astonishing speed and dramatic slow motion at the same time. He thought she’d – no, he didn’t know what he thought. He didn’t know if he had any thoughts in that moment, or if it was just a mute acceptance.

She placed a firm kiss on his face: not entirely on his lips (which he may or may not have expected and accepted shortly in advance), but it wasn’t entirely on his cheek, either. The inner corner of his mouth, on the left, that was the place.

Her mouth lingered, pushed, and he felt his own lips pushing back. It couldn’t be considered kissing, really. It’s just that she’d taken him by surprise. She might have aimed differently, but he’d moved his head and so it was entirely plausible that he had taken her by surprise as well. And she hadn’t minded this confusion, if it had indeed occurred, which was _good._ Nothing odd to be found here. Estelle could have walked in and it wouldn’t have been a big issue as far as either of them was concerned, not a big issue at all.

‘I should prepare the journey to Florence,’ he told his sister when she stood upright again, which felt like ages and ages later. He rose from the bed, so that now she had to look up at him. He almost walked away without further ado, but at the last second he bent down, kissed her cheekbone – high up there, slightly beneath the corner of her eye, well-aimed and well-intended! – and then marched out of the room in a wholly cardinal- and brotherlike manner.


	5. Carry Me Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare flees from the Vatican.

He spent the next fifteen hours almost entirely on horseback, which even for him was a long time. After leaving Lucrezia’s room – he had no recollection whatsoever of his journey through the Vatican, and could not conger a single face he’d seen on the way – he’d laid down on his bed hoping to lure Sleep in. Of course the arrogant bastard had proved as evasive as always. Cesare had simply stared at the ceiling trying to think of absolutely nothing, which was the second best thing after sleep.

Oh, he tried all right – tried like a madman to ignore how furiously his blood pumped through his veins and in all the wrong directions, so that neither the blush on his cheeks nor the itch in his loins would leave him. More than once he thought he’d finally managed to distract himself from these physical shortcomings (for lack of a better word, or rather for lack of common sense) but then would find his hand reaching out to _scratch_ the itch. He didn’t know what would happen if he did, but he guessed that it would unleash some holy hell. Or at the very least it would add to the web of rage, confusion and guilt that was forming in his mind like a sticky web that had him trapped. He didn’t need that now, he didn’t need to be trapped at all.

He was losing control, _fuck._

He tried his luck with alcohol after that, but found that that not only increased his slips of hand, but also broke down some important mental and moral barriers he was trying to keep up.

Even when the physical itch was gone after a long, long while, he thought he could feel its phantom presence. This was so bothersome that he just got out of bed, dressed and went outside to the stables.

He woke up a young boy who sat in a corner, slummed sideways against the wooden latches of the nearest box. Cesare marvelled and then envied the boy’s ability to doze off in such an uncomfortable position. He woke quickly, though, when Cesare nudged him with his foot.

‘My Lord!’ The boy said. He jumped up in such great haste that he slammed his knee against the wall, causing quite a lot of noise within the stables of horses scrambling to their feet.

The boy quickly said: ‘Sorry, forgive me, my Lord, I did not mean to, I did not!’

Cesare realized that he must have looked angry, which was never quite his intention but which happened a lot anyway. He frowned and shook his head. ‘Bring me Apollo’s bridle,’ he barked.

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said, and rushed off.

Cesare walked through the corridor of the stable, looking into each box but stopping at the third.

‘Hello,’ he said. A magnificent dark horse stared back at him. It had been roused by the boy’s clumsiness, and from the way his nostrils flared, it had been annoyed by it, too. It was undeniably a valuable creature: it was large, still young, healthy and it very obviously had a temper, like most of the horses that came from the south of Spain. Yet the thing that always drew Cesare’s attention was its neck: Apollo’s neck was sort of heavy and thick, so that it was hardly necessary to lay your hand on his mane to feel the strength in it. And yet if he bowed his head a little, the muscles would curve and roll and one could see at once that strength is not incompatible with elegance or beauty. One could learn a great deal about the quality of a horse just by looking at the neck, truly.

The boy came with the bridle just as Cesare got into the box.

‘Shall I fetch the saddle, my Lord?’ The boy asked, as he handed it to Cesare.

Cesare looked at Apollo for a moment, regarding the withers that almost reached to his own shoulders. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘But you can get me a saddlecloth and a satchel with some provisions. Water, too.’

The boy nodded and started walking away. When Cesare saw him heading for the exit, he called after him: ‘Do you not keep those things here?’ He didn’t want to stay in the city any longer than necessary.

‘Not much, my Lord. The kitchen has better things, anyway,’ the boy answered.

‘Don’t mind the quality of the food. If you have enough here, use that. I want to leave quickly.’

‘If it pleases you, my Lord. I’ll have to get the water from the well outside.’

Cesare waved his hand impatiently, then went over to Apollo to put the bridle on. The horse flattened his ears and flared his nostrils at him.

‘Don’t give me that,’ Cesare mumbled. He stroked Apollo’s head and kept on talking in a low voice, until he managed to get Apollo to open his mouth without biting him and accept the bit. He stood back to look at the horse. He almost thought about his sister – she loved riding, and normally he might have asked her to join him – but was saved from such a downward spiral by the boy, who was rummaging around in the front of the stables.

‘My Lord.’

But this was not the boy’s voice; this was a grown man’s voice, and one Cesare knew well.

Cesare turned away from Apollo to see his red-haired servant perching on the doorstep of the box. Micheletto always seemed to be perching on one border or other.

‘Did they find him?’ Cesare asked, feeling nervous suddenly.

Micheletto shook his head. ‘Not yet. What did the Pope say?’

‘Nothing,’ Cesare said, and he turned back to Apollo to stroke his smooth neck.

‘I will have Alessandro saddle a horse.’ Alessandro had to be the name of the stable boy, and surely that was how Micheletto had known Cesare was here. Not that his henchman didn’t have other ways of knowing. Cesare often thought it better not to know, and so he never asked about it.

‘No, I’d rather you stay behind and inform the Pope of my departure, on the morrow,’ Cesare said.

There was a brief silence, and though Micheletto didn’t ask anything, Cesare knew he would have to answer. ‘Tell him I’m off to deal with Florence. A meeting somewhere near Rome,’ he said after he was sure there wasn’t a better excuse. His father was sure to find out about Juan soon, Lucrezia had to be married and there were about a thousand other things he would doubtlessly need Cesare’s Cardinal skills for. The task of the Florentine friar was the only legitimate reason Cesare could think of to be away from Rome, and he hated that he had to come up with all that. He didn’t mind the lie, per se, but the necessity to do so.

He turned to look at Micheletto, who gave him a grave nod and then moved aside to let Alessandro in. The boy handed Cesare the things he’d asked for and asked if he could help put them on, but Cesare shook his head. He strapped on the satchel, put the cloth on Apollo’s back and led the horse out of his box while Micheletto and Alessandro watched. When Cesare mounted, the cloth moved askew. ‘Let me get a belt or a rope,’ the boy said.

‘No, never mind,’ Cesare replied. He moved around until the cloth was below him again.

The boy gave him that odd half-guilty and half-concerned look that servants got when they were about to criticize their superiors in some way. Cesare never quite saw the point of that look, because he found that it only made him less receptive of whatever was to come.

‘It won’t be too comfortable, my Lord. Without a saddle, is what I mean,’ said the boy.

Cesare gave him a sour grin. ‘I know,’ he said. He gave Micheletto a meaningful nod, pulled his hat down so that it was firmly on his head and pushed his heels into Apollo’s sides. Despite his initial grubbiness, the horse responded quickly and greedily. Cesare nevertheless kept on pushing until he was out in the open fields and well away from the Vatican.

He rode all night and part of the next morning. Despite his drive to go on, he tried to take it easy on his horse by stopping every couple of hours for some water. He probably could have continued like that for a while longer, but he knew it wasn’t healthy and so he stopped at a tavern not far from a crossroads to take some breakfast and rest. The stable boy that took in Apollo told him they were close to Nepi, which was about a two-day ride from Rome without any luggage. Viterbo wasn’t much further.

The inn keeper, a middle aged, rather graceless woman who introduced herself as Alba, brought him food and convinced him to take a room. She let the stable boy show him to the correct one, which was a good thing because if she’d done it herself he would have changed his mind and told her he’d be moving on. As long as he was on the move, he wasn’t thinking too much. He thought he could probably ride beyond Viterbo, since he was moving faster than normally; the Pope probably hadn’t even heard of Cesare’s departure yet.

Still, it was a good thing he took the room. There wasn’t much to it apart from a bed and a washing bowl without water, and so Cesare had no choice but to make himself comfortable on the bed. He only noticed that he’d fallen asleep there when Alba knocked on the door and woke him up.

‘Signor?’ She called. She didn’t know who he was, because he hadn’t told her and because Apollo’s gear didn’t have any insignia.

He sat up in the bed, which was creaky and unsteady from the hundreds of travellers that must have slept on it. It was agreeable, though, perhaps for the same reason.

‘Please, come in, Signora,’ he called back. He swung his legs out of the bed and reached for his boots, which were somewhere down there. He was putting them on as the inn keeper came in. She wasn’t shy about it, either, but just barged in and stood in the open doorway in a looming, threatening way, as if he were one of her sons and he’d slept late. He didn’t totally dislike the idea, provided that Lucrezia was also part of the narrative. Perhaps she could be someone else’s daughter, though.

 _For fuck’s sake,_ he thought immediately after he had that thought, and he sort of groaned.

‘I hope you slept well, Signor,’ Alba said, looking both worried and displeased.

‘Like a babe, in fact,’ Cesare said pleasantly. He gave her a brilliant smile, which made that little bit of sternness she had appropriated melt away like butter on a hot fire.

‘I’m pleased to hear it, Signor,’ she purred.

He smiled again but said nothing. It took a generous second before she realized that she had disturbed him for a reason. ‘You seem to have a _visitor,_ Signor,’ she said. She tried to put her tough bar wench-face back on, but it wasn’t as convincing this time. ‘We are not commonly in the business of carrying messages back and forth, Signor. This is a tavern, not a pigeon hole.’

He thought that that was amusing, because he was quite sure that there were other things being carried back and forth. He would eat his hat if those comely “daughters” of Alba’s were not all whores. Besides, visitors meant more revenue, and that ought to be worth climbing a few stairs and knocking on some guest’s door for.

But Cesare didn’t much care about Alba’s rebuke, nor did he feel that he had to make any comment about it as a “common traveller”. So he just said: ‘Of course not. I apologize. Please be assured that I did not invite anyone to meet me here, let alone use this tavern as a pigeon hole. In fact, I am rather curious as to the identity of this visitor.’

‘Man said his name was Signor Savonarola,’ Alba replied. She all but whispered the last words.

Cesare realized at once who the visitor was, and he couldn’t suppress a laugh.

Alba started nodding ferociously and said ‘I wondered about all that too, Signor, when I asked what his name and business was’, even though he hadn’t said anything. ‘But the name must be a coincidence.’

‘Yeah? What makes you say that?’

Alba pruned her lips and lifted her head up high. ‘If that man’s a priest,’ she said, ‘then I’m the queen of the Holy Roman Empire, Signor.’


	6. Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare shares a drink with the Florentine ambassador.

It was for this reason that Cesare was neither surprised nor displeased when he walked into the common room and saw the mouse-coloured hair and slight frame of the Florentine ambassador. He sat over in the corner, hunched over a bowl of broth but looking intently at one of Alba’s “daughters”. Somehow the sight of this improved Cesare’s mood even more, so that his day was shaping up to be unexpectedly pleasant.

He walked over to Machiavelli’s table and slid into the opposite bench. Machiavelli was so preoccupied with the lady that he only noticed Cesare’s presence when the bench creaked. He snapped his head to the side and gave Cesare a look that was hard to identify – frightened, offended, or a mix of both. As if this wasn’t amusing enough, the way in which he then reorganized his features to present a severe and wholly ambassador-like expression was truly a thing to behold.

Cesare made an effort to sound unaffected when he spoke, but he could hardly manage it. ‘Signor Savonarola,’ he said, snickering.

The ambassador started to get to his feet, which was difficult with the heavy table restricting his movements. Cesare quickly rose from his own seat and pushed Machiavelli back down. ‘No need for that,’ he said curtly. Machiavelli nodded to show he understood, and managed to give a bow that only involved the upper part of his body. It looked stiff and odd, but Cesare could appreciate the dedication.

He gestured to the sturdy man that walked around with jugs and plates – whether he was Alba’s husband or a pimp, there really wasn’t a way to tell – to bring some ale.

‘I confess I am surprised to find you here,’ Cesare said to Machiavelli.

Machiavelli’s face relaxed somewhat, as if until that moment he’d feared a harsh rebuke. ‘Then I must confess to the contrary, my lord Borgia,’ he said shrewdly.

The husband-pimp brought them two tin cups with ale and left without a word. The ale tasted stale and was unpleasantly warm, but Cesare didn’t really mind. ‘I dare say that you are better aware of my movements than my own guards, ambassador,’ he said. ‘I’m not quite sure if that is due to your astuteness or to my guard’s incompetence, although I suspect the former.’

‘You flatter me. But you ought to replace your guard in either case, if I may say so, my Lord.’

Cesare laughed. ‘Yes, I ought to.’

He watched Machiavelli drink from his ale and put the cup down again, apparently unphased, although Cesare noticed the slight twitch in his upper lip that signified distaste.

He took up his own cup and twirled the ale before putting it to his lips. He wanted to ask if it had been Alessandro the stable boy that had informed on him, or the guards at the gate or perhaps if Machiavelli had put spies on Micheletto – though surely Micheletto would have noticed such a thing. 

Yet when Cesare looked at Machiavelli from behind his cup, all he did was raise his eyebrows meaningfully and say: ‘They do have comfortable beds.’

Machiavelli chuckled, though he didn’t touch his ale again. ‘I do wonder,’ he said slowly. ‘If I may, my Lord…’

The husband-pimp was walking by just at that moment, but he didn’t seem to take note of Machiavelli’s last words. Cesare wanted to say that he oughtn’t refer to him as “my Lord”, but realized that it was inappropriate to do so and would likely embarrass the ambassador. He resolved to say nothing and raise an eyebrow instead.

‘I wonder which tavern will have the honour of hosting the Cardinal Borgia while also knowing the full extent of the honour bestowed on them,’ Machiavelli said, looking sideways to the man pouring the bad ale.

Cesare chuckled. ‘You _wonder_ , ambassador, where I am headed.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Well, I confess that my answer will prove somewhat… disappointing.’

Machiavelli pushed his broth aside and knit his hands together on the tabletop. ‘I do not know many places in Italy that I would label “disappointing”, my Lord. Dangerous, yes, and unpleasant without a doubt – but not disappointing exactly.’ He then seemed to reconsider, narrowing his eyes. ‘Perhaps with the exception of…’

‘Naples,’ Cesare filled in, and gave the ambassador a wicked grin.

Machiavelli let his formal look go for a moment to return the look. ‘We do have the word of the last French King for it,’ he said.

‘Well, thank God that I am not headed for Naples. I tried to go there not too long ago, you know, and it depressed me so much that I turned right around.’ Cesare drank from his ale again. He seemed to forget each time before he picked up the cup how horrendous the liquid tasted. ‘No,’ he said, supressing a shudder. ‘My answer is primarily disappointing because I hadn’t quite thought of my destination as of yet. I left Rome in a hurry. A bout of passion, one might say.’

‘If there is one thing I have discovered during my brief time here, it is that it’s exceedingly difficult not to leave Rome in a hurry, or to leave it without a passion,’ Machiavelli said. ‘Come to think of it, that is another thing the late French King can attest to. I was quite impressed by the way His Holiness dealt with Charles, especially since it seemed that the Papacy’s means were… limited.’

Cesare was normally impatient with flatterers – nothing was ever quite _that_ well done, in his opinion – but somehow he didn’t mind when it came from Machiavelli. Perhaps because he could speak more freely with the Florentine ambassador than with the others. It was obvious where Machiavelli’s allegiance lay, but somehow he was better at separating himself from his rulers than most others of his trade were, and that made an earnest conversation possible to some extent.

So Cesare gave Machiavelli a pleasant smile and said: ‘I agree. Although the Pope could not get the King to leave Rome in a hurry, exactly. Quite the opposite, to Rome’s misfortune.’

‘I suppose that Charles was not an altogether sensible man,’ Machiavelli replied. He fiddled with his cup of ale, but didn’t drink from it.

‘And yet I fear that he would laugh at us all the same, ambassador.’

‘Why is that, my Lord?’

‘Well, here we both are…’ Cesare made a gesture with his arm and jutted his chin up. ‘Enjoying some terrible drink in a tavern on the side of the road without a single sense of direction between the two of us. Quite embarrassing, is it not?’

Machiavelli sighed, but his voice didn’t sound at all tired or annoyed. ‘Well in my defence, one could argue that my destination is you, my Lord,’ he said, and then added significantly: ‘And until a few moments ago, I thought it might also be Florence.’

 _There it is at last,_ Cesare thought. He’d rather hoped their conversation would not become too serious, but then it was quite impossible to separate anything in his life from the Church.

‘Florence?’ He repeated, with some reluctance.

‘To deal with the friar personally,’ Machiavelli explained.

Cesare nodded. ‘You thought I would be riding to Florence without informing its envoy in Rome,’ he said, looking at his ale. ‘That would be deceitful. You must not think much of me, ambassador.’

He was only joking of course, although even the face of someone as sharp as Machiavelli must have contorted a little bit upon hearing such a brash comment from his superior, joke or no. But Cesare was looking at Alba now, who had come down from upstairs and was speaking to an old man on the other side of the room.

‘Quite the contrary, my Lord,’ Machiavelli answered. His voice sounded the same as before, but there had been a telling heartbeat of silence before he’d spoken. ‘But whatever my personal opinion, it is my duty to inform the Signoría of these things. They are not too fond of surprises, you see, nor to have an envoy in Rome who does not know what the Romans are up to. I hope I have not given offense.’

‘Oh, not at all. In fact, I am rather glad for your company, Signor Machiavelli,’ Cesare said, and he meant it. He turned back to the ambassador and looked him straight in the eye, so he would see. ‘Although I’m afraid Florence will have to wait.’

Machiavelli probably mistook Cesare’s sincerity for conspiracy, because he asked in a low voice: ‘Are events unfolding in Rome, then?’

Cesare leaned way back in his seat and looked around the room again. Alba had gone out.

‘Always,’ he said, then focused on Machiavelli again. ‘Which reminds me, while we are on the topic of Florence… may I ask you something? As a Roman to a Florentine.’

‘Of course.’

‘Would you say that Piero de Medici was a patron of the arts?’

This time the surprise was plain on Machiavelli’s face. ‘I am not quite the Florentine to ask about the Medici, my Lord, nor art patronage,’ he said slowly.

‘Because you’re a Republican?’ Cesare asked. It must have made the ambassador a little uncomfortable again, although to give him credit, he didn’t much show it.

‘Because I know little about Piero de Medici,’ Machiavelli said. ‘I never worked for the family, so I cannot say much about it. But I can make some inquiries, if you would like me to, my Lord.’

‘No, no, that won’t be necessary…’ Cesare replied, flicking his hand back. ‘Just tell me anything you do know.’

‘Speaking as a Florentine, then.’

‘Yes, as a Florentine.’

Machiavelli seemed to hesitate, but then he cleared his throat and said: ‘I always understood that Piero was not a patron of the arts. In fact, when compared to Lorenzo, Piero might as well have been a stable boy. He could count as far as a stable boy could, too.’

Upon seeing Cesare’s curious look, he quickly added: ‘I’ve heard it said.’

‘What of the Medici bank?’ Cesare asked. ‘Surely there were advisors. Surely Lorenzo made provisions. What happened to all that gold?’

Machiavelli shrugged. ‘I suppose it did what gold always does when handled without prudence. It vanished. May I ask what has sparked you interest, my lord?’

Cesare considered whether he should make something up or not, but decided that he would hardly be giving away valuable intelligence if he spoke of a servant. ‘One of my sister’s maids has a father who worked for Piero as a translator,’ he said.

Machiavelli narrowed his eyes as if it _were_ prized information. ‘I see. And you find this story implausible?’ he asked. He weighed every word carefully, too, apparently thinking hard about the matter.

‘She is not of Italian descent,’ Cesare said. Suddenly he didn’t feel much like explaining it. He thought he should have kept his sister out of it.

‘She’s Spanish?’

Now Cesare narrowed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said, a little too sharply. ‘Greek.’

Machiavelli took the hint and shrugged. ‘She might have confused the rulers. It is not uncommon,’ he said.

‘No, I suppose not…’ Cesare replied. He didn’t say any more about it, but in his head he was mulling over what Agatha had told him. She’d said that she’d been staying in Rome for four years. If Piero’s government was already failing at the end, then wouldn’t it be odd for the father to be in Medici employment? It was possible that she’d misspoken, of course, that she’d meant three years, or that her and her father had lingered in Florence a while longer. It didn’t seem to amount to a big deal. And what did he fear, anyway? That she was an assassin (hardly), or that she was out to steal his sister blind (so what), all on account of her just having a murky backstory? Who didn’t, in Rome?

It didn’t sit quite right with him, though, no matter how he put it to himself.

‘When was the Republic of Florence instated again, signor Machiavelli? You would know that as an ambassador, wouldn’t you?’ He asked the ambassador.

‘Oh, yes, and as a Florentine too, my lord,’ Machiavelli said eagerly. ‘The year 1494.’

‘Impressive,’ Cesare remarked. He felt Machiavelli silently regarding him.

‘I could make inquiries about this girl’s father, my Lord,’ Machiavelli said after a while.

_Well, why the hell not?_

‘I wouldn’t ask you to cross any professional boundaries, ambassador?’ Cesare asked.

‘One can never avoid crossing boundaries. In fact, oftentimes it is better that they are crossed before someone forces one to cross them,’ was Machiavelli’s reply.

Cesare grinned. ‘Someone like me, perhaps?’

‘Not at all. I would be glad to be your humble servant for this task.’ Machiavelli gave him a serious nod and did that upper-body bow again.

‘Thank you,’ Cesare said, and again he meant it. ‘But please – do not be humble, Machiavelli, never that.’

The husband-pimp walked right past their table then. Cesare quickly seized the opportunity and said: ‘Ah, Signor!’

The man turned around with eyebrows raised.

‘In the absence of good ale, would you perhaps be in the possession of some good wine?’

The man glared at them suspiciously. ‘Good, Signor?’

‘If not good, then bring us a large amount at least.’

The man regarded him and then Machiavelli with an openly dismayed expression. Alba, who had come back in the room at some point, came up behind the man. She looked dismayed, too. Cesare thought this was directed at the man at first, but was surprised to see that she was looking at him.

‘This is a tavern, Signor,’ she announced.

‘I should hope so, I would like quite silly otherwise,’ Cesare laughed. ‘I just ordered wine.’

‘There seems to be another _message_ for you, _Signor._ ’

‘Why, I assure you, Signora Alba, that I did not invite any-’

Alba clacked her tongue loudly. ‘There’s a boy claiming he’s got a message for you from the _Pope,_ ’ she interrupted him.

‘Oh,’ Cesare said, a little warily. He thought the Pope probably had not sent him a letter to wish him a happy day and God Speed. He quickly glanced at Machiavelli and saw that the ambassador was looking at him with interest. Alba was looking at him, too, with her arms crossed in front of her bosom.

‘Well, where is this boy?’ Cesare asked her.

‘Outside, of course,’ she said. ‘Carrying messages back and forth is one thing, but I’m not in the business of allowing nasty liars and cheats into my tavern! A message from the _Pope!_ What heresy!’ She was getting red in the face, and she was kind of heaving. Cesare noticed that she wore a necklace of rope with a wooden cross suspended from it. It amused him, for some reason.

‘Quite heretical indeed,’ he said, and glanced at Machiavelli again. ‘Wouldn’t you say, Signor Savonarola? But I’m afraid, Signora, that I’m going to have to see this messenger. To rebuke him for his heresy, of course. That, and the fact that the Pope would be cross with me if I didn’t.’

‘Don’t you start mocking me, young man!’ Alba flared. She looked about ready to strike him. The other man just stood silently behind her, following the conversation with a malicious grin on his face.

Cesare rose from his seat and reached out to take Alba’s hands into his own. ‘Alba, I would not dream of it,’ he said, looking directly into her eyes. They were a light brown, almost the same colour of his own mother’s eyes. ‘Would you do me this favour, though, Signora? I would greatly appreciate it,’ he said. Then he let go of her hands, but he didn’t sit down yet.

‘Don’t you wink those eyes at me, Signor!’ Alba cried, but she was already backing away to go and get the messenger. The husband-pimp looked sore, but he waited for Alba to get back instead of clearing out. Cesare smiled at him, but the man didn’t smile back.

Alba came back with a young man at her side that Cesare hadn’t seen before. He looked a little younger than Cesare was, but not much.

‘Your Eminence,’ the messenger said, and he dropped to one knee. ‘The Pope bids you return immediately.’

Alba and the husband-pimp took in this dramatic scene and both scowled at the poor messenger, who tried to ignore them. Cesare, for his part, wanted to scowl at the messenger too, but not for the same reason. He hadn’t expected anything good, but he hadn’t expected that he’d be ordered to return, either.

Not that it wasn’t anybody’s fault except his own: he had left the Vatican like a ghost in the night without informing a soul, the sort of abrasiveness that his father could not tolerate (not in him).

He’d hoped, of course, that he wouldn’t have to look at his Father’s face when they fished Juan out of the river. By now, Juan might have been found, and Cesare would have to see his Father anyway.

‘Did the Pope give a reason?’ Cesare asked, and dreading the answer.

‘A family matter, your Eminence,’ the messenger said, and then gave an angry look to Alba and the man. They both looked disbelieving still, but there was also a pinch of apprehension there, now that they witnessed both Cesare and Machiavelli treating the messenger with all seriousness.

‘Is it my brother?’ Cesare asked the messenger.

‘Your brother, your Eminence?’

‘Juan Borgia, you idiot,’ Cesare said angrily. ‘Is… is he alright?’

‘Borgia?’ Alba echoed. She was horrified, now, although Cesare was too agitated to get any enjoyment out of it.

‘Forgive me, but they did not say, your Eminence. Actually, I was under the impression that this concerns the lady Borgia. Eh, your sister,’ the messenger said.

‘Oh!’ Alba squealed. She was clutching at the man, who looked a little white in the face.

Machiavelli, who seemed to be getting annoyed with the messenger, said: ‘I was under the impression that it would rain today. I wonder, shall I saddle a horse and share my vague thoughts with His Holiness the Pope?’

But Cesare wasn’t listening, and started speaking while Machiavelli was still halfway through rebuking the messenger. ‘What of her?’ He asked with such urgency in his voice that Machiavelli quickly shut his mouth and resumed his neutral observer’s attitude.

The messenger was not as aware of the importance of his answer, and in fact seemed preoccupied with the Florentine ambassador. ‘The Pope did not say, your Eminence,’ the boy said timidly, as if Machiavelli might not hear that way.

‘Well is it an emergency, do you know that, at least?’ Cesare asked.

‘I don’t kn–’ the messenger started saying, then caught the furious look on Cesare’s face and decided that that horrified him more than the sharp tongue of the Florentine ambassador. ‘Well, perhaps not, I think not, the city gates are open,’ he stammered.

Cesare promptly got up, sending Alba, the man and the messenger stumbling back nervously. ‘Saddle Apollo,’ he demanded.

‘He is already outside, your Eminence,’ said the messenger, pleased that he had at last done something right.


	7. The Return of the Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare returns to Rome and finds the city in lockdown [too soon?].

When he arrived in Rome the next morning, Cesare knew there was trouble. The city gates were closed, even though the messenger had said they weren’t. It was lucky that Cesare wore his Cardinal’s ring, otherwise the guards wouldn’t have let him through. When asked what was the matter, they said there was trouble with the Pope’s family. They looked at Cesare rather oddly, probably for not knowing what was going on with his own family. He cursed himself for going away, but there was nothing to do about it right then except hurry.

By the time he arrived at the stables, Cesare was absolutely drenched in sweat, and he couldn’t feel his legs. From the heaving of his horse, Apollo probably did not feel very different. Alessandro the stable boy jumped forward to take Apollo from him. Cesare was only mildly surprised to see Micheletto appear right behind Alessandro.

‘The Pope is frantic, my Lord,’ Micheletto said, without waiting for Cesare to ask the question. They were already making their way to the palace, with Cesare in the lead. ‘His Holiness ordered the city gates to be closed a few hours ago, and search parties have been roaming the city since last night.’

‘Where is Lucrezia?’ Cesare asked, while he peeled off his leather gloves and then stuck them under his belt. He was half running, but it felt like everything around him moved in slow motion.

‘She must be in her chambers,’ Micheletto said.

‘Is she safe?’

‘I wouldn’t know why not, my Lord.’

They were making their way through a corridor on the first floor. Cesare was looking for a smaller stairway that he knew was there. It was faster than the main staircase, which would lead them all across the second floor. ‘Juan?’ he asked, when he’d finally found it. He was embarrassingly out of breath and could hardly get the word out, but it was necessary.

His henchman was less restrained by his lungs, and answered in his familiar hoarse whisper: ‘He hasn’t been found.’

They arrived on the third floor, with the Borgia Tower just ahead. Cesare stopped and turned to look Micheletto straight in the face. ‘Make sure my sister is alright, and bring word to me directly and in person when you know,’ he said.

‘Of course, my Lord,’ Micheletto nodded, and he added, more as a partner crime than as a servant: ‘But I don’t think there is reason to worry. The whole of Rome will be focused on your brother soon.’

But Cesare wouldn’t be reassured – or rather, he wouldn’t let Micheletto change the cause of his concerns – and he sent his henchman off without another word. Then he made his way through the Tower, in search of his father.

The Pope was in the Papal Suite, and he was pacing around just like he’d done last time Cesare spoke with him. That was already two days and one night past, and the Pope looked like he had remained awake through all of it.

Cesare stayed on the threshold, uncertain if he should approach or not.

It took a while before the Pope noticed that he was there. When he did, he appeared far from disappointed. He rushed to his son and took firm hold of his upper arms. Cesare felt every muscle in his body contract in response.

‘What happened after you and your brother left Vanozza’s?’ His father asked, without any greeting.

‘Juan left earlier than I did,’ Cesare answered. ‘He said he would go into town. I went to the Vatican with Lucrezia. What’s happened, Father?’

His father let him go and turned away from him. He stood there looking as hunched and slight of frame in his white robes as did the Florentine ambassador in his scraggy coat. ‘Your brother hasn’t come home,’ he said. ‘We have issued search parties, but they cannot find him.’

Cesare had meant Lucrezia, but he was careful enough not to correct his Father.

He still felt tense all over and was too restless to find any better spot to stand than right there in the doorway. He looked behind him to see if Micheletto might be returning already with news of Lucrezia, even though he’d only just left. The hallway was empty apart from a handful of guards staring stoically into the distance.

‘Have they searched the brothels? The inns and pubs?’ He asked after he’d turned back to his Father.

The Pope nodded but didn’t say anything else.

‘You should sit, Father,’ Cesare said. He was itching to ask about the ‘family matter’ the messenger had spoken of, but his Father seemed too distracted and unreceptive for such a question.

Cesare came forward and put his arm around his father’s shoulders to guide him over to his bed. His Father didn’t resist him. ‘What could have happened to him?’ He asked Cesare.

‘I don’t know, Father,’ Cesare answered, when his Father was seated. ‘How is Lucrezia?’

His Father didn’t seem to hear. He was fumbling with his lower lip and tapping his feet on the floor. ‘He should have been home by now, shouldn’t he? He never stays away this long, does he?’

‘No, Father, not usually.’

There was a painful silence.

‘Cardinal Orsini suggested we search the mortuaries,’ his Father said then.

Cesare frowned. ‘Where is Cardinal Sforza?’

‘The mortuaries. He wants to search the mortuaries!’

‘Father!’ Cesare barked.

The Pope lifted his head and put his bright brown eyes on his son. They were sparkling madly, because of the tears pooling up in the crevices of his eye sockets.

‘Oh, we don’t know,’ he said, but it was unclear whether this was in response to Cesare’s question or a comment on the situation in general.

‘I will head out tonight with Micheletto,’ Cesare told him, because he didn’t know what else he could contribute. He’d already made his contribution, in a way.

His Father lifted his head and gave him a terrible look of hope and gratitude. ‘You will?’

It made Cesare want to punch his fist through the nearest wall. Or his head, perhaps.

‘Father, how is Lucrezia?’ Cesare asked again, and he put more urgency in his voice this time.

His Father frowned and blinked a few times as if he didn’t quite understand the words. But after some thought, he said, in an offhand manner: ‘She is well, I expect.’

‘The messenger suggested something might be wrong.’

‘You thought it was about your sister?’ The pope gave him an indignant look, and for a moment Cesare thought he would be scolded. _So that is why you came back so quickly, is it? For your sister, but not your brother!_

‘The messenger said it involved her,’ Cesare explained. _But the messenger was a bloody idiot, and so am I._

But the Pope’s eyebrows raised meaningfully, as he seemed to come to some realization. ‘Ah, yes!’ He exclaimed, and for the first time he looked somewhat alert. ‘Your sister has agreed to marry.’

Cesare assumed that his father, in his distress over Juan, was confused about the Church’s affairs, so he wasn’t much affected by this statement. ‘Didn’t she already agree to that?’ He said.

‘Yes, yes,’ the Pope replied, and he waved his hands in the air impatiently. ‘She has agreed to marry a particular young man, one of her suitors.’

Cesare just stared at his Father, unable to process the information. The word “suitors” rang through his head obnoxiously. It’s just that he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t dreamt up this explanation in all the hours he’d spent on horseback crossing the road from Nepi to Rome. Now it seemed stupidly logical, almost improbable, like a dead leaf slowly falling from an already naked tree.

Of course he’d gathered that things were probably _relatively_ fine, otherwise Micheletto would have known something – but Lucrezia _married._

_Again._

The urge to slam his hand, head or whole body into a wall returned with a vengeance.

The Pope seemed a little puzzled by his reaction, because he said slowly: ‘I assumed you’d spoken to her about the need for this marriage.’

‘Yes.’

The Pope seemed to be waiting for Cesare to say more, but when he understood that that wouldn’t happen, he said: ‘It is to be Alfonso d’Aragona. Sancia’s brother.’

‘Sancia’s brother,’ Cesare repeated in a dull voice.

‘From Naples.’

‘Yes.’

Again the Pope waited for Cesare to speak, but he couldn’t. His head was full of words, but no sentence that he tried to form made much sense to him. It was a strange thing, actually, that he’d been prepared to lie his way into hell about everything related to his brother, but that this topic had him completely floored.

_But you told her to pick one, didn’t you?_

Yes, yes, yes he had.

‘It is the perfect union,’ the Pope said. He spoke with genuine excitement, his missing son momentarily pushed to the side for the glory of the Church.

‘Think about it!’ He exclaimed. ‘What is the one state in Italy that is unlikely to side with France, Spain, the Turks or even the Hungarians for all we know? Naples! Naples is on the side of Naples. It is neutral in this conflict. Alfonso d’Aragona is perfect.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now all we need is to find your brother.’ And with those words, the Pope’s sadness returned with the ease with which one congers up a smile. ‘And we will not have to search the mortuaries for that,’ he added miserably.

His father’s sadness clicked with something in Cesare, and he heard himself saying: ‘I will find him, Father.’

At least it was a promise that he knew he could live up to.

Micheletto was already waiting for him when his Father let him go about half an hour later. 

‘Your sister is in her chambers. She’s well,’ he said, as they walked down the stairs together. Cesare made a vague sound by way of reply.

‘She said she wants to talk to you,’ Micheletto went on.

For a ridiculous moment, Cesare thought that Lucrezia had come along with Micheletto and that she would be waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Micheletto got a few steps ahead of him before he noticed and turned around. ‘She asked for you to visit with her when you are able,’ he said, guessing Cesare’s reasons for holding still so abruptly, or at least guessing one of them.

Cesare closed his eyes and sighed heavily. ‘I’m not,’ he said to the darkness behind his eyes.

‘My lord?’

‘Tell her that I’m not. Able,’ Cesare said, and opened his eyes to look at his henchman. ‘I cannot see her.’

Micheletto nodded, neither surprised nor offended in any way, even though both were perhaps warranted. But surprise wasn’t an emotion he often displayed (a forte that assassins had in common with ambassadors, along with spying); and it was better if the message came from Micheletto and not some guard or messenger boy.

‘What do I tell her?’ Micheletto asked.

‘That I’m away from the Vatican today and tomorrow. Perhaps the day after that, too.’

Micheletto looked down at the stairs. He had one foot placed two steps higher than the other, and he was sort of leaning on it with one hand. It would have looked relaxed on anyone else, but with Micheletto the stance reminded of a prying cat.

‘Where do I tell her you went?’ He asked in a soft voice.

‘I don’t know, does it matter?’ Cesare snapped. ‘You could spin a tale to the Pope of Rome, is my sister much more difficult?’

Micheletto waited a moment to let Cesare’s outburst slide all the way down the marble steps.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ he said then.

Cesare shook his head in defeat and resumed descending the stairs. ‘Fine. Tell her that I’m searching the mortuaries of Rome. Just never mention it to my father.’

‘His Holiness believes Juan is alive?’

Cesare stopped again and turned to look at Micheletto, who came to a halt just behind him.

‘Oh, Juan is alive, Micheletto,’ he said, his eyes glittering madly. ‘In fact, we’re going to spend the coming days looking for his sparkling bloody personality all over Rome. Then, upon his return from whatever hole Sforza’s crawl into when they’re out of sight, we’re going to ask the Cardinal Chancellor of our Holy Mother Church to start sorting out the mortuaries and the bottom of that Godforsaken Tiber, should the need arise.’

Micheletto gave him a dark look that was undoubtedly a mirror of Cesare’s own expression. ‘When do we leave?’ He asked.

‘Soon. But first I’m taking a bloody bath,’ Cesare answered.


	8. Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare goes out to fulfil the promise to his father and put his best efforts to finding Juan. As they patrol the suburbs of Rome, they encounter something odd.

It took a while longer before he could take that bath, to Cesare’s chagrin. He wanted to check on Apollo first, and had the misfortune to come across several worried cardinals on his way through the Vatican. They mostly wanted to speak about Juan, though not all of them knew exactly what was going on – with several fearing that the French were back, now under the command of King Louis, whom they’d heard was a much more virile and sharp man than the late King Charles.

‘Of course not,’ Cesare told cardinal Piccolomini, whom he found to be an old, impressionable man that mostly took up space. ‘Surely we would have noticed an army on the march, Cardinal.’

Piccolomini came with an unexpectedly snide remark, although it was possible that he wasn’t fully aware of this. ‘We hardly heard them last time,’ was what he said.

‘Well, hear this,’ Cesare replied, just barely hiding his irritation. ‘The Pope’s son and my dear brother, Juan Borgia, has disappeared, and if something should have happened to him, say as a result of some Roman plot that the noble families of the Romagna so love to sprout forth, the French spears will look like feathers and their cannons like little bouncing balls.’

‘A Roman plot?’ Piccolomini repeated dumbly.

Of course the implication that Cardinal Piccolomini, or his family, could have devised an anti-Borgia plot was ridiculous and highly improbable, but Cesare was too fed up to care much about that – or about Piccolomini’s heartrate, at that.

‘Yes, Cardinal Piccolomini, they call it the Roman disease. Or they ought to. It is truly terrible.’

He left the Cardinal with that, knowing that the man would likely spend the coming hours worrying about the Roman families infecting the city with syphilis. Not that Juan hadn’t genuinely tried that.

Cesare shook his head and quickly made his way to his chambers to have a bath drawn, one hot enough to let these terrible jokes die in the water. He had to be sharp now: it wasn’t as if he hadn’t foreseen his brother’s death, so the least he could do was keep himself together during the aftermath of it.

_I did it for the good of the Church, after all, and the family._

When he was finally able to step in the tub, filthier than a stone on a dirt road, none of his troubles washed off together with the filth. It felt good to be somewhat clean, though, and to be alone. After fifteen minutes in the water, he even began to feel something that resembled quietude – the kind borne from both exceptional loneliness and uneventfulness in a time of otherwise extreme turbulence. Quite far from serenity or peace, but Cesare closed his eyes to at least bear some semblance to such idealistic notions.

He went out with Micheletto at nightfall, leading a small division of men in and out of alleyways in the suburbs of Rome. Everywhere they went, people closed their doors or turned their backs if they didn’t have any doors; even the guards responded nervously when asked if they had seen Juan Borgia. Rome reeked of fear: noblemen, ladies, drunkards or prostitutes, everyone knew that the one thing worse than the death of a Pope was the death of someone close to the Pope, especially in an already tense climate. It was common knowledge that the noble Roman families were out for blood, that foreign armies might march in at their leisure and that there was a Spaniard on the throne who was no pushover, especially when it came to his family. 

Even Cesare, one of two people who knew for a fact that Juan _was_ dead and that the Orsini or Vitelli or Sforza had nothing to do with it, could feel the fear on the streets. It was creeping into his pores.

One soldier tentatively asked whether they should start searching the morgues (he already looked sorry before the whole sentence was out), but Micheletto answered that they wouldn’t do so until the Pope gave the order. Cesare didn’t disagree.

The search went on for hours, obviously without any results. Cesare resented the loss of time, but then it was the least he could do after being the cause of Juan’s disappearance.

‘We’ll have to call it off soon,’ he told Micheletto as they were patrolling a back alley. Their soldiers were on the main street, checking with a pub that they were all sure had been checked before.

Micheletto nodded. They turned to walk back to their division, when something caught Cesare’s attention. He turned back and eyed the slums and the cracked road that led into nowhere. It was strangely quiet, but it was no different in most other parts of Rome.

‘My Lord?’ Micheletto asked.

Cesare stood there staring for a few seconds. He was sure something had moved. Then he shook his head and turned to Micheletto. ‘Do you have any idea where Cardinal Sforza might be?’

‘No, my Lord, but I expect he’s fled.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘There was a disagreement between him and your brother a few nights past, my Lord.’

‘Oh, yes, I heard about that,’ Cesare said, thinking back to the irate cardinal Sforza leading mass on Wednesday. The Pope had been completely oblivious of the cardinal’s mood, but most attendees had noticed. ‘Well, surely…’ Cesare began, but the rest of his sentence died in the night air. Something had moved again, he was sure of it, just beyond the last slum. It was gone every time he looked in its direction, but he thought it might be a person.

He didn’t call out, but marched confidently to the end of the alleyway. Micheletto followed slowly and at a distance, probably thinking that Cesare would turn back any second.

He didn’t, though: to his surprise, the alleyway got increasingly crowded with trees, until the ramshackle houses on either side disappeared and gave way to a patch of forest.

‘My Lord?’ Micheletto asked. Cesare felt his henchman close behind him, but he didn’t turn to look: there seemed to be something, or rather someone, that was constantly on the edge of his vision. It was in front of him at first, but as the trail went on, movement came from all sides. Each time Cesare would turn his head, the shadow of a man or woman fled.

The only person he knew could move like that was Micheletto. Where was Micheletto?

He peered over his shoulder for the first time, but he was alone. He called out, but no answer came. The minute he did, the shadow moved again. It drove him crazy, and it wasn’t long before he was running around the forest with his blade drawn, shouting like a maniac. They hadn’t been very far from the suburbs – how could there be this much forest? Had they passed the city gates without noticing? How was that possible, when Rome was in lockdown?

‘Cesare!’ A voice called suddenly.

Cesare promptly came to a halt. He was sure that he knew that sound, and that it hadn’t come from Micheletto. He couldn’t say who it belonged to, but he knew instinctively that it was important. He turned on the spot and stared into the forest. It didn’t do much good: it was fast getting darker and Cesare couldn’t see too well. He must have imagined it, anyway.

Disgruntled, he started picking his way through the forest to try and find the road that had led him there. He didn’t know how long he’d run around aimlessly, but he was worried that he might be lost. The wind picked up and turned the forest into a maze of shadows all moving around. Then it was raining too, but it was this very soft, weepy rain that births a putrid smell of things that died in the sun once. Despite his thick cloak, Cesare was quickly chilled to the bone.

The weather was relentless. The wind started whistling and howling and tugging at his body; whether to push him out of the forest or pull him in he didn’t know. Then, amazingly, this wretched wet storm started to carry sounds across. They were inarticulate at first but quickly formed faintly recognizable syllables. Cesare thought it was his name again, but then it changed to _brother, brother, brother._

He started walking slower and unsheathed his sword again. There was someone in the forest with him. _Cesare_ , it whispered.

‘What?’ He shouted back. He noticed that he was sweating despite the rain and wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers. When he looked down, the same voice called his name again. He knew that voice, recognized it now – but it wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be.

He came to a full stop and vowed not to move until someone stepped forward. Again, he heard ‘Cesare’, though now there was a distinct undertone of distress in the voice. He spent about a minute ignoring it, thinking that it would be alright if he focused again on finding his way back to the Vatican. He shouldn’t have run when he’d first heard something, and he was only making it worse for himself.

Except the feeling of fear that he’d tasted in the streets had a firm hold of him now, and he felt that he had to help whoever was out there.

 _I’m going mad,_ Cesare thought, as he rushed blindly into the darkness. Wet leaves tickled his cheeks and twigs scraped at his ankles, and all that time he was sweating so badly that he might have been swimming in the Tiber. He kept expecting to come out in a clearing and get some relief from his discomfort, but the forest went on and on, wrapping itself around him.

_Who is giving chase here?_

At the exact moment that he had that thought, a tree stump or some solid foresty object found its way in front of his feet, and Cesare went down with his limbs sprawling. He tumbled over twice before a cluster of thorny bushes embraced him and stopped his rolling motion. He ended up on his side, with the bushes pricking into his flesh and the pummel of his sword pressing painfully into his hip.

‘Cesare?’

He started crying out that he wanted to be left alone, but then he looked up and it was _her._

‘Lucrezia?’ He looked up and looked into the face of his sister. She had on a sober black dress and wore no jewellery apart from small pearl earrings. He could see the simple cloth slippers on her feet, a few metres away from him. They were completely ruined from the muddy forest ground.

He tried to get to his feet, but it was a surprisingly painful experience. He groaned and had to settle for sitting on all fours for a moment. ‘What- Darling, what are you doing here?’ He stammered. He remembered that he’d wanted to avoid her, and that the forest was probably the most unlikely place to run into her. Still, she was undeniably here, looking like herself. She must have followed him.

She rushed to his side and helped him to his feet. She smelled good.

‘You’re filthy,’ she said to him.

‘I fell,’ he explained. ‘We have to get you back to the Vatican, my love. Why aren’t you wearing a cloak?’ He started gathering her in his arms to offer her what little warmth he had in his body, when something made a sound on their right. Cesare turned his head quick as a cat, and finally caught what had been just outside of his sight the whole time. He shrieked, even though it was gone as soon as he saw it. But he’d seen it, he was almost sure that he had: a man’s gaunt face had looked at them from between the trees, a terrible white face with black veins running just beneath the skin.

‘What is it?’ Lucrezia asked.

He looked at her and noticed that his hands were trembling. He stopped touching her so she wouldn’t notice. ‘I…’ he started. He looked back at the spot where he’d seen the man, but it was just a dark blot. ‘Nothing.’

Lucrezia put one hand on the side of his face and tried to get him to look at her again. ‘Ces?’ She asked worriedly.

He kept on staring at the dark trees until he was sure that he’d imagined it. Only then did he turn to look at her. ‘It’s nothing. It’s this business with…’

‘With whom?’

He stared into her blue eyes that looked so _devotional_ and thought that he probably wouldn’t be struck down if he just said the name. He’d said it before, so he could say it now.

But just as he opened his mouth to do so, there were more sounds, now on the other side of them – and when Cesare looked, it felt a lot like being struck down.

The same face was visible between the trees, though it was more distinct than before. The cheeks were too hollow, the eyes too black and the skin too translucent, but other than that, the features undeniably belonged to Juan Borgia.

‘No, no, no,’ Cesare murmured. ‘It cannot be you.’

His brother smile at him to contradict that statement.

Lucrezia turned to see what he saw, but as soon as she did, Juan retreated into the forest.

‘Ces? What is it?’ She asked.

Cesare barely heard her, and he doubted that he would have been able to speak even if her words had registered.

‘What do you see?’ Lucrezia insisted. She was touching his face again to get him to turn his head, but he was scanning the darkness around them.

‘You can tell me. It’s me,’ she pleaded. Her hand had crept around to the back of his head and was stroking his hair. Juan was not in sight, but Cesare knew that it was only a matter of time.

‘Please,’ she said. Her body was warm and pleasant, but it did not calm him down. He felt the way he’d felt when he’d been running through the forest. She was everywhere around him and he couldn’t get away; it was uncomfortable, but only because there was something lurking somewhere in the distance. A danger that couldn’t be defined easily, one that didn’t have a face but a loud voice.

He shook his head absent-mindedly, thinking that it was just another itch and he had to ignore it.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ She asked. Her voice was in his ear and her breath warmed one side of his face. He tried to see past her but only saw the smooth skin and curve of her neck.

She wasn’t wearing a cloak, why wasn’t she wearing a cloak? She was all exposed now.

‘Cesare,’ she whispered.

_Just another itch._

Then she was kissing him and he didn’t know how it had happened or how to stop it. He didn’t really want to stop it. It felt so natural, and always had when he’d thought about it in the comfort and anonymity of his dreams. The guilt came after.

‘Tell me,’ she repeated, whispering the words against his lips. Her mouth had him trapped and kept the guilt at bay.

‘I love you,’ he said.

She didn’t respond. She was waiting, because she knew there was more. He had been waiting, too, but perhaps that should be over now.

He put his hands on both sides of her neck and looked at her intently. ‘I killed Juan,’ he said.

Her expression was completely blank for a long time. Then her features started to twist and contort.

‘No, please,’ he stammered, though he didn’t know how his pleas would change anything. He strengthened his grip on her and kissed her lips again and again. ‘ _Please_ ,’ he repeated.

She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words there was a strange gurgling sound that came from her throat. He frowned and she coughed, one shy little cough that seemed to surprise her. The one cough turned into a violent coughing fit, and she spat out a dark, thick fluid that stained his face and her chin.

Unspeakably horrified, Cesare’s hands left her throat and he took a step back to look at her. There was a stain on her bodice that was growing as he watched. It hugged the steel tip of a dagger, which was disappearing back into her body. Lucrezia’s body jerked when it was pulled all the way out by the man behind her.

Over her shoulder peered the skeleton face of their brother. He was dripping with water; his hair looked like weed and his clothes were muddy and ragged. He had one shrivelled-looking hand on the place where Cesare had had his hand, against her pale neck. The grip of that dead hand appeared to be the only thing holding her up.

Cesare stood watching, tears streaming down his face and his mouth open in a wordless scream.

‘I have long suspected my _brother_ ,’ Juan said, without opening his mouth, ‘of having _congress_ with my angelic sister.’ He let go of Lucrezia as if she were a lifeless ragdoll, and she collapsed exactly as though she was.

Cesare shot forward and could just barely keep her up. They sagged to the cold ground of the forest. He tried to put his hands against the wound, but everything felt wet and hot to the touch. In the end he just wrapped his arms around her and pulled her body close against his.

When he looked up, Juan was still there, looking down on them. He watched wordlessly how his dead brother’s thin, bloodless lips parted and gave way to a flood of filthy water that streamed down his chin and body until it washed Cesare away.


	9. Les Contretemps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare is put on the spot in an unforeseen and uncomfortable encounter.

He woke from his slumber with a start and splashed a great deal of water out of the tub in the process. The water was not as warm as it had been, and his skin was a little wrinkly, but he didn’t think that he’d completely fallen asleep. The hot steam coming off the water had probably lured him to that plain between consciousness and oblivion, a no-man’s-land that was arguably a much more terrible place to be than at either extreme. The precise contents of the dream were already slipping away for him, but the extreme discomfort of it, the very filth on his skin that he’d imagined, stayed.

He thought of Lucrezia, that he wanted to see her – simply because he felt foul and impure despite the bath water, and he never felt foul or impure when he was with her. But then he remembered that she’d been in his dream, that she’d died in his arms, and he wondered if that was simply his mind’s way of telling him: _you lost her_. This time, you lost her. _Get over it._

She was only a child when she married that pig of a Giovanni Sforza, but no longer: she was a woman and she needed love. He knew it, saw it in her eyes sometimes. She’d turn to her child then and stroke his cheek, or she’d turn to him and look for his hands to put in her own. But the love one has for one’s child cannot fill such a void of longing, not the one he knew _she_ had; nor could the love for one’s brother ever be enough. It would never be enough.

God, how he’d wished that it could be.

_I’m a bloody fool._

Cesare raised himself up. It was better to get out and start patrolling the city with Micheletto, perhaps see if there were any forests full of ghosts that needed cutting down. He was tired of bathing, anyway.

He stood still for a moment to clear his head from the warmth and to let the water roll off him. Something made him shiver; perhaps the temperature in the room, which was lower than that of the water, or the wailing wind might have crept out of his dream and into the room.

Something creaked behind him. He almost turned around – whoever had dared come in without leave could at least deal with his naked glory – but he realized before that who it was. He could feel her presence as if she were one of his own limbs.

‘Lucrezia,’ he noted. He was taken aback by her sudden entrance and wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He wanted to sit down in the water again, but he also didn’t want to draw attention to his modesty. All the while, his blinking bare behind stood completely at the mercy of her gaze.

She said nothing, but he heard her slippers sweeping softly over the stone floor of the room. He hoped she’d stay behind him and hand him a towel or a robe, but her feet didn’t make any stops or turns.

Sitting down, then.

Cesare lowered himself back into the lukewarm water, sighing heavily as he did it to make it seem as though he was just getting comfortable for a conversation with her. He leaned his head back against the wooden rim and tried to follow his sister without turning his head. She was wearing a deep blue gown with brown patterning, and bellowing sleeves. Blue looked good on her.

He watched her walk up to the foot of the tub and silently take him in from there. He was lucky that the water was murky, otherwise he might as well have continued standing up. He resisted the urge to let his hands slide in the water and cover up his jewels in spite of the cover the water gave him.

‘Don’t look like that, brother,’ Lucrezia said. He frowned and pulled up his knees beneath the water like the virgin Mary, but she wasn’t talking about his body parts. Not literally, anyway.

‘Micheletto did as you asked,’ she said. Her tone was a little nasty, and he couldn’t say he blamed her for it. She obviously knew that he hadn’t wanted to see her. ‘According to all reports, you are scouring the city right now in search of our brother. Micheletto even hinted that you might be in the Castel Sant’Angelo, no doubt torturing suspects.’

‘God gave me a day off,’ he said.

‘Ah. From what, exactly?’ She started circling the tub, eyeing him all the time. She even slid a finger into the water and stirred it the way a witch might, if the witch meant to uncover through sinister means ‘the secrets of the dirty bath water’. Not that she was like to care about his private parts. Why was he being so damn prudish anyway?

He almost stood up, but then he didn’t and just got annoyed with himself. ‘From my family,’ he said meanly. ‘What do you want to hear, Lucrezia?’

‘Nothing,’ Lucrezia said. She stopped walking around the tub and stood still right next to him. ‘I didn’t come here seeking your favour. Or your approval, for that matter.’

‘What would you need my approval for?’

‘I’m going to marry Alfonso d’Aragona, duke of Salerno and Bisceglie.’

He turned his head away from her and looked at the water instead. ‘So I’ve heard,’ he said, and nothing else. She waited for it awhile, though, like his father had.

‘Don’t you want to know why I chose him? If I followed your advice?’

He sighed and turned his attention back to her with obvious reluctance. ‘You did not come seeking my favour, and I do not seek yours,’ he said dispassionately.

‘You must be someone else, to speak like that,’ she said, and pressed her lips together. He wasn’t used to getting that expression from her, and didn’t like that he got it.

‘You’re the one that came to me,’ he said. ‘I said I wouldn’t be able to meet you.’

She narrowed her eyes at him and clenched her hand around the rim of the tub. ‘Because you have a day off,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

She slammed her hand on the tub then, almost making him jump. ‘What is it, Cesare, for Heaven’s sake? You’re not like yourself.’

He almost asked what he was like when he was himself, but thought better of it and ripped at less existential matters. ‘What’s wrong? Everything’s wrong!’ He exclaimed wildly, and he hit the water with the flat of his hand to mess up the perfect, smooth surface. ‘Juan has disappeared, the Pope is out of his mind, Savonarola continues to breathe the rank Florentine air and you –’

He stared at her, realizing that she shouldn’t be on his list of problems. She was, though _,_ he was way past denying that, but he couldn’t very well tell her that.

But she’d noticed that sliver of hesitation and latched onto it without a moment’s thought. ‘I… what?’ She asked him, one eyebrow expertly raised.

He thought it might be better if he simply kept his mouth shut for a while.

‘Come on then, say it!’ She cried. ‘You’ve been itching to, I can tell.’

‘I have nothing to say,’ he said. ‘I’m glad that you found someone, Crezia.’

He tried to sound sincere, and he partly was. The way it worked, if he imagined himself to be anyone else – his father, his mother or even himself a few years earlier – he was truly glad for her. But then he’d crawl back into his own skin, and his happiness for her simply didn’t fit with whatever was inside him.

Obviously he’d never liked the idea of Lucrezia marrying, but speaking about it was different from seeing it become reality. Let alone seeing it become reality _twice._

He just needed some time to adjust.

If she could have just given him some time, instead of barging in on him while he was _bathing._

But she wasn’t to blame, he was. He should never have told Micheletto to lie to her.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said to him, and again he couldn’t blame her for her confusion as it was about the only state of mind available to him lately. ‘You _told me_ to find a husband, you and father _told me._ ’

‘Yes, and it’s good that you have. I’m glad. Father is, too,’ he said, but she was like a dog with a bone and kept on nudging him. He pretended not to be listening, as if he couldn’t care less, but he was and he did.

‘Is it Alfonso? Don’t you like him?’ She said. ‘Is it because of your dalliance with his sister?’

He let the charade of indifference go and gaped at her in astonishment. ‘My what?’

She gave a dry chuckle. ‘You don’t have to lie, Cesare. Sancia told me all about it.’

‘You have me confused with Juan,’ he said, appalled at what he was hearing.

‘Oh but the difference is as stark as day and night!’ Lucrezia cried out. ‘You see, one brother loves me dearly and would never sleep with his brother’s wife, or the likes of Sancia d’Aragona. The other treats people as if they are heaps of dust while not noticing that he himself is the largest pile of excrement there is. That’s the way it _used_ to be, at least.’

‘Good God. I didn’t sleep with Sancia, Lucrezia!’ Cesare shouted, and he rose from the bath in one angry movement, sending the waterdrops everywhere. He only remembered that he was naked when he stood upright, which somehow made his tongue viler. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’ He asked, pushing his face closer to hers. ‘Are you _jealous_ , sister?’

It was probably the worst thing he’d said in an altogether disastrous conversation, and he saw immediately its disastrous effects. There were tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. She was trying not to let them roll out, he noticed, but they did anyway.

‘I’ve found a man to marry,’ she said, after swallowing and sniffing once. ‘And I will tell you, though you never asked, that he is a good man, and one whom I think I could care for as much as I care for my brother. The kind one, the thoughtful one, the only important one. I didn’t come here looking for his blessing since I thought I already had it. I came because I thought that he would be happy for me. So no, brother, I’m not jealous, I’m sad.’ Tears were streaming down her cheeks by the time she was finished speaking, in a poetic parallel of the bathwater running down Cesare’s own body.

If he begged her forgiveness now, he might be able to undo the damage _he’d_ caused.

He never used to do that in the past. It was Juan who hurt her, always Juan.

_Am I turning into him, then, is that it? Or is some bitch goddess making me pay for what I’ve done, by turning me into the vilest creature in Rome?_

He watched her cry and didn’t know how to take it all back. He finally lifted his hands to kiss her fingers like she sometimes did, or to put them against her neck like he’d done in that damned forest. But she looked so miserable that he reached his arms around her instead and pulled her against him. He felt her stiffen all over and thought he’d done the wrong thing, but then she became soft again. She hooked her arms between his shoulders blades and pushed her cheek against his wet breast.

‘Forgive me, Crezia,’ he murmured, and he kissed the top of her head. There was no itch that came with it, just that easy contentment and wonderful familiarity of having her close and safe.

They stayed like that for a little while. He felt how every crevice of his body warmed up, and realized only as it happened that he had been nothing short of a walking icicle before she’d come in. Oh, he loved her for that – loved her, loved her endlessly, and he could not _not_ tell her that he loved her.

She pulled back shortly after he’d said the words. He let her go and looked at her face. She didn’t look angry or shocked. Halfway between surprised and questioning, maybe. For once he couldn’t read her too well, and it made him anxious. It’s not as if he hadn’t ever told her he loved her before, although – granted – he’d never done it _naked_ before. But he’d completely forgotten about that in the moment, so it didn’t matter.

Now that he stood silently before her it was hard not to remember his nakedness, though, or not to notice: he saw her blue eyes flee from his body and her cheeks turned scarlet before his eyes.

She turned to cover it up and searched the room for a towel. When she’d found one, she threw it at him and quickly left.


	10. Phantoms in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare is busy hunting the city for his brother, but he feels strangely at ease. He lays out a plan for the future and searches out a friend to help him further his ambitions.

Cesare was strangely chipper that day and the next, even though there was scarcely any reason to be: the hunt for his dead brother was long and tiresome, his father shifted in and out of moods that no one could predict – Cesare heard that he’d shouted at three cardinals, even though the Pope was characteristically indulgent even when it came to the Curia –, and perhaps most worrisome of all was his fight with Lucrezia. Or rather, the way it had ended.

Cesare kept seeing her face after she’d pulled away from him and he was left standing upright in the bathtub: how her eyelashes had quivered with the nervous movement of her eyes as they scanned his naked body, and then the abrupt turn of her chin to the side, as if someone had pulled a string.

Perhaps he was living through his last days, and this odd triumph he felt constantly was the madness that comes just before death. Or perhaps – the more likely but less favourable option – he felt so good because, for the shortest moment, he’d seen his own weakness reflected in her. Her looking away from him, clearly ashamed, had perhaps made them equal even if little else had been achieved. He didn’t have any illusions: nothing between them was fixed – hell, he hardly knew what was broken – but they could keep moving at least. It had cleared some space in Cesare’s head so that he could think clearly for what felt like the first time in weeks.

He could make sure now that his actions could have the reactions he desired.

He was lying in bed when he thought of this, his body craving rest but his mind racing with the possibilities, the _necessities_.

First, Juan had to be found, so someone had to go over the mortuaries. Cesare had hoped that he could burden Cardinal Sforza with this task, but in the latter’s continued absence, he’d be forced to give the order himself. His Father wouldn’t like it, but at this point not even he could think it a strange decision. He would brief the Pope in the morning, a task Cesare did not look forward to.

After Juan was found, someone would have to keep a close eye on the papacy. The Pope was hardly fit to do so now, and it would only get worse once he learned of his son’s death. Cesare would have to do it, since Cardinal Sforza was not around. That might work in his favour, actually: without the Pope and the Chancellor, the Curia would surely look for a leader, and Cesare had the triple benefit of being the Pope’s son, a cardinal, and a man (unlike Lucrezia, and even she had assumed the regency for a while). Surely all that could counter-balance the fact that he was a Borgia.

Not that Cesare was particularly looking forward to assuming his Father’s role, even a little bit – he wanted out of his red robes, not grow into them more than he already had. But he knew that some of the cardinals were vultures that smelled and feasted on weakness, and that most of the others were sheep that fled from the stench. They would invite cardinal Della Rovere back, or appeal to the Orsini and the Colonna, and that would be detrimental not only to the Borgias, but to the Church.

Besides, if Cesare had a firm handle on Church matters, he would have a firm handle on his own future, and his Father. In hardly any time at all, he would be the Church’s Gonfalonier instead of its prince.

But first things first. After the arrangement of Juan’s funeral, Cesare would have to deal with Lucrezia’s wedding. Another thing he wasn’t looking forward to, but also another thing that would pan out better if it was under his control. He’d have to start with the announcement, a feast to celebrate the union. It would be a large one, to show that the Borgias were not weaker after the loss of one of their own. No, quite the opposite, they were stronger! That had been the whole point of it, and Italy would come to realize that the same way he had… preferably sooner rather than later.

And then there was the matter of the heretic, Girolamo Savonarola. That had already been Cesare’s task, and he hadn’t yet completed it, which was a problem. Considering that he’d known about his brother’s death, he should’ve been able to handle it more swiftly.

He tried to move on to other things, but the friar lingered on his mind. Annoyed, Cesare sat up in bed. He shouldn’t keep putting off the Savonarola-case; if the Pope hadn’t been distracted, he’d doubtlessly be berating his son for failing in his duties. It didn’t matter that Cesare wasn’t directly responsible for the delay of execution: it was his case, and the only important thing was that it went away. Surely there was _something_ he could do about it, or otherwise he could find someone else to do something about it…

Cesare promptly got out of bed, dressed and went to find the one person he knew could help.

The hour was very late by the time Cesare reached the ambassador’s quarters, but as he’d expected, the ambassador was awake. He was taken with some important piece of work, and sitting behind a desk that was far too small to hold all the papers, ink pots, maps and desk paraphernalia that were placed on top. It was obvious that Signor Machiavelli was not an orderly person by nature, and Cesare suspected that his mind, sharp though it was, was prone to diversion, with one thought frequently being overrun by others.

He watched the ambassador work for a few minutes, and only then did he speak up.

‘Signor Machiavelli,’ he said. He stayed in his place in the shadows of the doorway, leaning against the doorpost with his shoulder and keeping his arms crossed in front of his chest. He didn’t do it to frighten people, amusing as that was, but that cloak of sinisterness simply fitted him well. Not to mention that it was the middle of the night, so a different entrance hardly seemed appropriate.

Machiavelli did not jump, like many did. His pen did scratch loudly on the paper and then came to an abrupt halt.

He laid the pen down, stood up and bowed behind his desk to the dark spot where Cesare stood. ‘My Lord Borgia. Now it is me who must confess to being surprised,’ he said calmly.

Cesare didn’t apologize for his intrusion. Instead, he said: ‘I thought I ought to return the favour. And I thought I should apologize for my abrupt departure at the inn. I hope I did not give offense.’

Machiavelli shook his head and showed Cesare a grave expression. ‘Not at all, my Lord. I understand that your reasons to return were most imminent.’

‘Yes,’ Cesare sighed, and finally he left the obscurity of the doorway. He walked slowly through the room and casually examined it. Sober furniture and books, mostly.

He held still at one of the trunks that stood against the back wall, the only one that was open. When he peered inside he saw that it was filled with scrolls and more books. How in the world had the ambassador managed to transfer a library to his private chambers?

‘I’ve been searching Rome all day,’ he said absent-mindedly. He bowed to take a book out of the trunk. The one he picked up was so old that it was a surprise it didn’t fall apart in his hands, but clearly it had been opened a lot. ‘Meanwhile, the Curia quivers before the Bishop of Rome, God’s hand on earth,’ he went on. Upon opening the book, he saw that the title page read: _Naturalis Historia_ , _Volume II_ by Pliny the Elder. He smiled to himself and shut the book with a thud. ‘But what does it matter, eh, Machiavelli? Rome will survive us all, in the end.’ He looked back at the ambassador and waved Pliny in the air demonstratively.

The ambassador was unperturbed by Cesare’s forwardness, in fact he was encouraged by it. ‘No sign of your brother, then?’ He asked, leaving the formalities behind. Cesare wasn’t sure if that was intentional or not, but even from where he stood he thought he could see Machiavelli’s squinting black eyes burn a hole in the darkness with the force of their curiosity.

Cesare put the book back in the trunk and turned to give the ambassador his full attention. ‘Not one,’ he said.

This attention seemed to make the ambassador uncomfortable, because he relinquished his candid expression and shuffled over to a cabinet on the other side of the room, far away from Cesare. ‘Can I offer you some wine, my Lord?’ He asked, as he fumbled with tin cups. ‘It is not particularly fine, nor Catalan, but it tastes of wine at least.’

‘Then it will suit me well enough,’ Cesare said.

Either the distance between them put the ambassador at ease, or he simply did not feel beleaguered enough, because he didn’t change the topic of conversation to something else. ‘What do you suppose happened to your brother, my Lord?’ he asked. He was pouring the wine as he spoke, but the casualness of his actions or the flatness of his voice didn’t disguise his eagerness to know.

‘It’s a mystery,’ Cesare answered. ‘As if the earth opened up and swallowed him whole.’ _The Tiber did,_ he thought, _but what’s the difference. Both a pile of mud and dead bodies._

Machiavelli walked over to Cesare and handed him his cup of wine. ‘Then we must hope the earth will spit him out again,’ he said.

Cesare drank from the wine and let the fluid roll across his tongue. It wasn’t Catalan, far from it, but it was good. Tasted of dark berries that had grown heavy and rich under some Tuscan summer sun. ‘Oh, I expect it will,’ he said languidly. ‘Juan has always been hard to stomach.’

He peered at the ambassador over the rim of his cup, but Machiavelli turned around and walked back to his desk. Cesare couldn’t tell much from the way the ambassador held himself – he always looked scrawny, but it was the posture of a boy rather than an old man – and he was too far away now to get a clear look at his face.

There was perhaps no good reason to be so wary; after all, Machiavelli had said nothing particularly strange or alarming. Yet Cesare thought too much of the ambassador to be mindless about his words. He considered the fact that he wouldn’t have minded his words so much during consistory, in front of the whole Curia – but maybe that said more about the cardinals than it did about Machiavelli. They both had their magnifying glasses on him, but the difference was that when the other cardinals looked, they saw their own reflection before they saw him, and when Machiavelli looked, he could see through the glass straight at him.

‘I’ve heard of your brother,’ Machiavelli was saying. ‘He has… spirit.’

Cesare wanted to laugh but remembered that he would be exposed if he did. He had to admit that he was quite on edge, but not in a bad way. It was like sword fighting. It could be over if he did a step to the side, just said a single word and end it because he could. But he wouldn’t.

‘Hmm,’ he mused. ‘Yes, he does. For some things.’ He drank from his wine and tried to trace the shape of the man behind the desk. The contours were vague.

‘And not for others,’ the shape parried. ‘I have heard it said that they put the wrong son in the red cloth, if I may speak so frankly, my Lord.’

Cesare chuckled. ‘Well, now that we are speaking frankly, I feel compelled to say that I doubt my brother would make a very good cardinal. Not much worse than me, perhaps, but it won’t be very good all the same.’

‘Yet the cardinal would make a good warrior,’ Machiavelli said, and then, after a slight pause. ‘A better one, perhaps.’

Cesare didn’t know how to respond to that at first, simply because he could not agree more. ‘But I do fight, ambassador,’ he said in the end. ‘We all do. Just for different things.’

‘And the best thing we can do is win, your eminence,’ Machiavelli said. The title came sharp and stinging from his mouth, like the lash of a whip. _Juan didn’t win, did he?_

Was that what the ambassador was implying?

‘That too,’ Cesare replied, and thought: retreat. _For now_. ‘But I was hoping to speak to you about another matter, while I am here.’

‘Fra Savonarola,’ Machiavelli guessed right away.

‘Yes.’

Machiavelli stepped in front of his desk so that he was better visible and leaned against it. He curled his hands around the edges and fixed his beady eyes on Cesare. ‘Well, he still lives.’

‘I thought you might say that,’ Cesare said, trying not to make a face.

He opened his mouth to offer a possible solution, but Machiavelli was quicker. ‘ _But_ I’ve been working to convince the Signoría to relocate him,’ the ambassador said.

Cesare raised his eyebrows and took a few steps forward.

‘To Rome,’ Machiavelli added. ‘I did not know of your Lord brother’s situation when I wrote them, of course, otherwise I would have suggested-’

‘Have no worry, I can deal with the friar, if the Signoría agrees,’ Cesare interrupted, putting special emphasis on the last part.

Machiavelli nodded. ‘I am confident that they will,’ he said in as confident a tone. He might have realized this, because he picked up his own cup of wine and continued talking to make it seem as if he’d accomplished something quite ordinary. They both knew that he’d secured a great success, though, so Cesare wasn’t bothered by the tone.

‘I received a letter two days ago that sounds promising,’ Machiavelli went on, a great deal more reserved. ‘I meant to tell you at the inn, but…’

‘I had to leave. But this is good news!’ Cesare exclaimed. ‘Get them to agree, Signor Machiavelli, it will be most helpful. For _both_ our cities.’

‘Yes, I think it will be.’

Cesare smiled and lifted his cup. ‘Thank you, ambassador,’ he said, before emptying it and putting the cup on top of the trunk. He made to leave, but Machiavelli pushed himself away from the desk and said: ‘Wait, my Lord. I have other news. About the servant.’

Cesare stopped and turned, intrigued. ‘I’d forgotten,’ he said. ‘What have you found?’

‘It is true that she is from the Despotate of the Morea. Interesting place, I’ve heard. It used to belong to the Romans. But most things did.’

Cesare ignored the commentary and squinted his eyes at the ambassador. ‘She lied to me,’ he said. He didn’t pose it as a question.

Machiavelli clacked his tongue. ‘Perhaps. All I know is that it is unlikely her father worked for Piero de’ Medici. However, it is possible that she was in Florence; that her father worked in Florence even.’

‘You can trace her to the city?’

‘No, but I think I can trace her reasons for bending the truth to your lordship.’

Cesare looked at Machiavelli for a moment, puzzled, but then he understood and groaned. ‘Don’t tell me that she used to work in a whorehouse and that she wishes to keep it a secret,’ he said. He didn’t much like a whore offering her breasts to his nephew. Plus, what if someone were to find out that his sister employed whores? That would be the cherry on top of an already multi-layered cake.

‘No, but she is a commoner even so. She might wish to keep that a secret,’ Machiavelli said.

Cesare chuckled and expected the ambassador to do the same, but Machiavelli kept a straight face. Uncertain whether it was a drawn-out joke or not, Cesare asked: ‘ _Why_ would she wish that?’

Machiavelli cleared his throat and uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘It is not uncommon for servants to feel… _intimidated_ by a young lord and cardinal such as yourself,’ he said.

Cesare came close to laughing out loud. It was a ridiculous idea, not least because the woman he’d spoken with had hardly seemed intimidated. But Machiavelli’s face was dead serious, and he’d done the research to back it up – so could there be something that Cesare wasn’t seeing?

He tried to think it through again, but all he came up with was the idea that Machiavelli might sympathize with the woman because he was something of a commoner himself. Even though he was an ambassador, and higher in rank than a nurse, he still scratched only the surface of the endless plots and intrigues of the Vatican. The pope and his young mistress; the cardinal-traitor who’d conspired with the French king; the son of the pope, murdered and thrown into the Tiber like a gutted fish.

Perhaps because of this, it never quite occurred to Cesare that people committed little sins, too.

‘Machiavelli,’ he said brazenly. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that the woman nursing my sister’s baby risked both her life and her soul by lying about her past, only out of a sense of shame?’

He couldn’t resist smiling at the end of the sentence, because when he said it he realized again how little he believed in Machiavelli’s prognosis.

Machiavelli squinted his eyes at him, but not in an unfriendly way. He stayed silent for a few moments, apparently thinking. Then he said, in what Cesare thought was a cautious tone of voice: ‘People do a lot of things out of a sense of shame.’

‘And anger,’ Cesare retorted a little impatiently. ‘It is not out of the question that this woman is looking for vengeance against my family.’

‘No, it is not,’ Machiavelli said, though it was obvious that he thought it was nearly out of the question. He nodded to Cesare as if admitting his defeat. Cesare was on the verge of thanking him and leaving, when Machiavelli added: ‘But with a woman, when it comes down to shame and anger, it’s usually shame.’

‘Quite untrue, Machiavelli,’ Cesare said, surprised by this comment. He had no desire debating _Genesis_ at such an ungodly hour, though, so he bent his head to the ambassador and started leaving. At the door, he looked back once and said: ‘Clearly you haven’t met my sister.’

He saw Machiavelli’s curious eyes burning a hole in the darkness again, but Cesare just smirked and left.


	11. 'Tis Pity She's a Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare decides against going back to his room and goes to Lucrezia's instead. A surprise is waiting for him there, and not a good one.

On his way back to his chambers, Cesare thought with satisfaction about the matters he’d resolved today, and decided that he might resolve more. Lucrezia would probably be asleep, but he could see if Agathonica was awake and prod her a little. Machiavelli might be convinced that there was nothing to it, but he wasn’t. And even if she was a commoner who was shy about her past, than she still might have been a whore at some point.

He was reminded of the time while he made his way there and he saw the moon shine through the high windows of the palace. Odds were that everyone would be asleep. He stopped in the middle of the stairs and looked at the darkness outside, hesitating about whether to go back or not.

But why would he? If everyone was asleep, then he could look in on Giovanni and watch over Lucrezia for a bit. A curious thing to do without any pretext, surely, but he had one.

When he arrived – he took the side door that led into Giovanni’s chamber, not wanting to wake Mila or Estelle – he found that Agathonica was wide awake. She was pacing in the nursery and seemed surprised to see him, and a little disconcerted, too. Was that guilt on her face?

‘Did I startle you?’ He asked. He looked from her to Giovanni’s cradle. The baby was sound asleep.

‘Where is Lucrezia?’

‘Eh…’ she said, unable to recover herself quickly enough.

He’d expected an unremarkable answer, but in the absence of that small reassurance he immediately felt panic set its claws in his breast. He dashed past the nurse to get into Lucrezia’s bedchamber.

‘My lord!’ Agathonica said, and he felt her hand brush his arm.

When he got to Lucrezia’s chamber, his heart fell through his chest down to his feet. Lucrezia’s bed was empty, but the sheets were all rumpled, clearly abandoned recently and in a haste.

Cesare stared at the empty bed. He was vaguely aware of Agathonica standing at his elbow. She was speaking, but he tuned in too late because he only heard: ‘My Lord?’

She sounded as disconcerted as she’d looked.

‘Where is my sister?’ He asked, still staring at the bed.

‘I thought you would be… I don’t think you should be here, my Lord,’ Agathonica said slowly.

Cesare turned around in one flowing motion and grabbed the woman’s throat.

‘Where is my sister?’ He asked again. He didn’t squeeze or apply too much pressure, but Agathonica made unsettling choking sounds nevertheless. Remarkably, she didn’t fight him or even clutch at her throat with her free hands.

‘A messenger,’ she managed to say. ‘Came. Took her.’

‘What messenger?’

‘R-red.’

_Micheletto._

He released her. She fell back against the wall and doubled over, coughing dramatically. He let her catch her breath and then he walked over to her and told her to stand up. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look straight at him. She had her back to the wall and couldn’t go anywhere even if she tried, which she didn’t.

He studied her face. ‘Are you a whore, Agathonica?’ He asked.

She frowned. ‘No, my Lord.’ She had a stealthy look on her face; perhaps she feared that he was going to rape her and she was bracing herself for it.

The thought repulsed him, _she_ repulsed him, but he didn’t let go.

‘My sister,’ he said, pronouncing the words slowly and clearly.

‘She had to go with the messenger, because…’ Agathonica started. She seemed to know why, but she just said: ‘There was an emergency, my Lord. In the Tower.’

He didn’t ask more questions, but bounded off for the Tower immediately.

He arrived in record time, and found his Father’s mistress pacing the hallway before the Sala dei Misteri, which the pope used for private audiences. She looked startled when he rounded the corner, probably because his footsteps made so much noise. Once she’d identified him, her anxious expression morphed into a different, heavier kind of anxiousness.

‘Cesare,’ she breathed. She was wearing an ermine cloak that was much too thick for this time of year, he suspected because she only had on a nightshift. She wore her long, light brown hair loose, but someone had taken the time to brush it and tie half of it in the back, so that her forehead was bare. It had the unintentional side effect of emphasizing her extremely pale complexion, which bordered on grey now.

She still looked beautiful, though, with her delicate features and her slanted, beguiling eyes. But then Giulia Farnese, “La Bella”, was an exceptionally lovely woman, always had been. Lord knows that Cesare had tried to charm her when he was a teenager, but she’d never been affected. In fact, she’d laugh as he made a fool out of himself, and then tell Lucrezia. She was not many years older than him or his siblings, and after they’d all been taken away from their mother’s care and Cesare and Juan were sent to university, Lucrezia had lived with Giulia in the household of Adriana de Mila. Often when Cesare visited, which he would do while Juan was out drinking and whoring in the city with other students, Lucrezia would tell him of all the hardships she endured – the worst being that Giulia was too “perfect”. It always made him laugh, even though Lucrezia would hit him or cry when he did. Unfortunately she’d laugh twice as hard whenever Giulia rejected him again and told her about it.

He never tried it again when they found out that Giulia had become the Pope’s mistress. He remembered how his mother had thrown a fit of some proportion, when she’d never screamed at Rodrigo in his life, or even raised her voice. He supposed that she just wasn’t that kind of woman. She’d been a courtesan once, and perhaps she’d learned then not to be too affected by the monstrosity that is life. That day they found out about Giulia and the Pope, though, she threw a fit. And who wouldn’t have? Giulia was old enough to be Rodrigo’s child. She was beautiful, soft-spoken and intelligent, but still a child.

Cesare had been furious about it, too, and that had nothing to do with the fact that he’d fancied her. In truth, he’d gotten over that after about a whole month of infatuation, and then he’d only made passes at Giulia because he wanted to lure her into his bed and show off to Lucrezia. He knew that she used to peek sometimes, anyway.

Oddly enough, Lucrezia was the only one who didn’t feel any type of way about the affair. She never again said that Giulia was too perfect, but that was all there was too it for her.

Now Giulia looked years older, as if being with the Pope had aged her. Cesare resisted the temptation to ask why she’d ever agreed to step into that old man’s bed at all, and instead asked: ‘What’s happened?’

‘We sent men to look for you, but they said you were not in your chambers,’ she said worriedly.

‘I was with the Florentine ambassador,’ Cesare said, and when he saw her frown he added: ‘We both keep unconventional schedules. What is it, Donna Giulia? Is something wrong with my Father?’

Giulia shook her head. ‘Not your Father.’

He hadn’t truly thought there would be. He’d suspected the true nature of the emergency from the moment Agathonica had said it was an emergency.

He moved to get past Giulia and step into the room, but she blocked his way and put her hands on his arms. ‘Wait! Before you go in there…’ She gave him one of those sad, melancholic looks that veiled women often have on Christian paintings, clutching at the saviour or kneeling at his feet.

‘They’ve found Juan, haven’t they?’ He said a little flatly.

She shook her head and looked down at the marble floor, but she kept her hands on his arms. ‘He’s dead, Cesare. I’m so sorry.’

He tried to let her compassion and grief pull him along, but all he could think and feel was: _finally._

He waited an appropriate time and then exhaled the air that had bundled up inside him. ‘I feared it,’ he murmured. He put his hands on Giulia’s lower arms and squeezed gently, hoping that it would look like a comforting gesture while he really hoped it would make her let go of him. ‘Where is my sister?’ He asked.

‘Inside, with your Father and your mother. We tried to reach you, but-’

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Cesare said quickly. ‘How are they? How is Father?’

‘In shock, I think,’ Giulia said. Finally she let go of him. She took a step back to look at him and assess the damage. The sadness had been washed off her face, and now she just looked worried and anxious again. ‘If you need a moment alone…’

‘No, no, it’s alright. I’ve already been away too long,’ Cesare replied. He could have used a moment alone, actually, but he preferred it if Giulia was not there to study him. In part because he didn’t have a whole lot of patience with her – he’d lost that since she’d taken up with his father – and because it was better if no one focused too much on his feelings right now.

He nodded at the door behind Giulia, which looked like an ominous thing.

‘After you, Donna Giulia.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis a Pity She's a Whore is a play written by John Ford in the 1630's. It is a tragedy ("a woman's tragedy" as a character exclaims) about the (reciprocal!) love between siblings Annabella and Giovanni. It has the most dramatic ending I ever read, involving a heart spiked on a dagger that's kind of being flopped around like it's a kebab. The edition with an analysis by Wiggins is amazing.


	12. One Thousand Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juan's body has been found.

Long before Cesare definitively cut Juan out of the family, he’d been bracing himself for this moment. He had conjured up about a thousand scenarios of how it would go, and had only been able to do what he did because he truly felt himself ready for each and every one of them. The room with the body was _his_ room, _he_ commanded it because _he_ had created it.

Yet the moment he stepped over the threshold everything fell away, as such things do.

His eyes were inevitably drawn to the crown piece of the room: the disfigured corpse of Juan Borgia, lying on an ornamented bier. He was aware of the presence of his father, standing close to the bier but not touching it. Across from his father stood his sister, and further to the back was another person. Probably his mother, going by the way she had her hands clasped tightly before her stomach, but he didn’t look up at her to see. In fact, for the first thirty seconds, he could only look at Juan.

His skin was by no means as pale as the skin of the ghost in his dreams, nor was there a network of veins visible just beneath the surface like a very morbid work of art. Juan’s body was no work of art, in any sense. Its colour was a grimy brown, the features unclear and not behaving like features or like much of anything else. Someone had tried to clean him up, and beneath the creamy sheet that covered him one could glimpse a fine doublet – but those things only seemed to accentuate the very ugliness of the body.

This Juan was nothing like the one Cesare had thrown into the Tiber, and it was almost possible to believe that they had the wrong guy. Or, even better, that Cesare had never done it in the first place.

But he had. Although denying it would be convenient, it was the worst kind of hypocrisy he could think of, and although Juan had surely needed to die, Cesare had to believe that it was a fair death, no hypocrisy involved.

He felt everyone’s eyes on him suddenly and realized that staring at the body was not in any of the scenarios he’d played out in his head.

 _A corpse is just a corpse,_ he told himself, and was relieved to feel that he believed it.

He looked up and met his father’s eyes, but was surprised at how hard it was to do this. He averted his gaze, but the alternative view was not much better. He noticed his mother, who was white as a sheet and had her hands clasped so tightly that they might have been trying to strangle one another. Cesare could see her quivering even though she stood at the far end of the room, at a safe distance from her dead son. Giulia had entered the room behind him and joined his mother’s side. She hadn’t tried to put her arm around Vanozza, which probably would not have been appreciated, but just stood there looking at the ground, close enough to Vanozza that their arms brushed.

And then there was Lucrezia, standing opposite their father with just the bier in between. She was wearing a shift beneath a cream-coloured night robe and no jewellery, but someone had taken the time to put her hair up in a sober black hairnet. He tried to read her eyes, but she kept her face turned down as if she didn’t want to see him. Perhaps she didn’t.

He felt the gall rise in his stomach and looked at the bier with the body, because he was actually most comfortable looking at that. Because _corpses were just corpses_. 

He tried to find his voice and get through a couple of rehearsed sentences. ‘Juan… what happened, Father? Where…’

He stopped speaking when he heard how starkly out of tune his words were with the silence that had preceded it. Only now did he fully feel the tension in the room, a tension that he didn’t think was caused by grief.

He looked at his sister again. She’d been looking at him, but her eyes fled to some corner the moment he turned his head. But it didn’t matter this time: now that he looked closer he noticed the little things he hadn’t noticed before. Her lips pressed tightly together, the crinkle in her nose and the stiff way with which she held her neck.

She was upset, and greatly so.

Cesare was terrified that it was because of Juan, that she should be upset about her brother’s fate despite everything. The purpose of Juan’s death would not have been entirely lost, but it would become a purely selfish act and yes, a hypocritical act, because he thought he’d done it for another.

For the first time in a long time, he remembered that he had killed for a woman before, and that the woman had not wanted him to. She had shunned him, run to a nunnery, and there she had died at the cruel hands of fate: the French army had stumbled across that convent, of all places, and they had torched the place with her inside it.

Should a similar fate put its hands on his sister, then he would do worse than blow up some French arms caches, he would do worse than murder those bastards that were responsible for the death of sister Martha. _I would burn the entire world, with myself inside it._

And yet, Lucrezia had no way of knowing that he might be responsible for Juan’s death, even if it had upset her – and he could keep it that way, keep her ignorant of it. He thought he’d decided to do that already, but it was only now that he realized he’d kept his options open.

Well, not anymore. He couldn’t risk it.

Cesare moved towards her. The shuffling sound of his boots on the stone floor appeared obnoxiously loud. ‘Lucrezia-’ He said, but his voice died away when he noticed his Father scowling at him. He stopped short, the bier and Lucrezia just two feet away from him now. He stared at his sister, but Lucrezia still didn’t meet his eyes or try to bridge the distance between them.

He cleared his throat, feeling increasingly uneasy. ‘What happened?’ He asked.

There was a long, chilly silence. Then his Father spoke in the most ragged, tired voice. ‘We went to the mortuaries tonight and recovered our son. They said…’ His voice broke at the last couple of words, and he had to pause before he could finish the sentence. ‘Said he was dragged from the Tiber yesterday morning.’

Again the Pope had misunderstood Cesare’s meaning, although it was clearly Cesare himself who was to blame for that. Again, he did not correct the Pope, nor did he comment on the Pope’s statement.

He was still staring intently at Lucrezia. ‘Are you alright?’ He asked, because he had to know that at least.

The roaring voice of his Father that followed immediately after seemed to gobble up the quietness of Cesare’s voice so much that it was like he never spoke. He saw Giulia and Vanozza flinch, and even thought Juan’s body trembled – but Lucrezia didn’t move a muscle.

‘Don’t you dare!’ The Pope shouted at Cesare, pointing his finger at Lucrezia the way a superstitious priest might sentence a witch. ‘She is not the one deserving of your pity, not now!’

Cesare felt his father’s eyes on him, but he just couldn’t look up. He thought it might be unwise to continue looking at Lucrezia, so he looked at Juan again.

His Father made another odd guttural sound, that held middle ground between indignation and grief. ‘Your brother lies dead before you,’ he said. ‘Dead! Murdered! Does that mean nothing to you?’

In other circumstances, Cesare would have gotten on with his utterances of shock and bewilderment at his brother’s murder, and then his lack of expression certainly would not have registered with an aggrieved father. But Cesare had strayed from the path he’d laid down, and of course he hadn’t counted on his father’s anger. Especially not anger pointed at Lucrezia. When was his father ever angry with her? Even with the debacle around her second marriage, he’d never been as irate as he was now. What had she _done_?

‘I know that, Father, and I know what it means,’ Cesare started, trying to keep his voice level. ‘But…’ The rest of the sentence died in the air. _But what?_ He had to be careful now. He’d staged small insurrections against his father in the past, pushing him to his limits about the cardinal’s robes, his influence in worldly affairs and Lucrezia’s hopeless marriages, but those were but small things compared to this. Easily forgivable. This was not so easy, perhaps not even forgivable.

‘But what?’ The Pope asked. His voice was flat now, and dispassionate, which Cesare did not take as a good sign.

‘I am appalled that my brother, that a _Borgia_ should have suffered the despicable indignity that is death. _But_ I know that my brother has courted death, and death sometimes has little patience, or gentleness, when courted,’ he said at last, and he meant it. Juan’s death was Juan’s fault as well as Cesare’s.

Perhaps out of a sense of rebellion, indeed, that growing familiarity with insurrection, Cesare fixed his eyes on his father. The Pope looked like a wounded animal, which was much worse than the cold hatred Cesare had braced himself for. It was as if he’d stuck a knife in his Father’s guts and could see the reaction on his face, as he died at the hands of a terrible Judas.

_Like Juan._

_Borgias,_ Cesare remembered, _never forgive._

Again he found that he couldn’t bear to look at his Father.

He saw that Lucrezia, conversely, was staring at the Pope in open defiance, her blue eyes watery but burning even so. He was never more in awe of his sister.

The Pope probably saw it too, for he pointed his daggers back to her immediately. ‘And you, what say you to that? Do you have anything more to add?’ He barked, giving her a singularly accusatory look. It was obviously a continuation of the conversation they’d been having the moment Cesare and Giulia had entered the room.

‘Nothing, Father,’ Lucrezia replied flatly, but the expression on her face made it impossible for the Pope, or any of them, to ignore the matter.

‘You agree with your brother? Do you?’

Lucrezia finally looked at Cesare, her eyes shooting fire and saying _yes, yes, yes, you and I._ The feeling that it gave him did not have a name, and was profoundly distressing. Again, Cesare found that he had to look away.

But the Pope saw the exchange, and it enhanced his fury. ‘Do you?’ He repeated, more harshly, and then let his voice drop to a low and dangerous rumble. ‘Or did you have a hand in this courting of death, perhaps?’

This Cesare could not tolerate, and he dared to turn his eyes back onto his Father’s face and raise his voice. ‘Father!’ He said.

The Pope’s eyes found Cesare’s, giving him a dismayed and surprised expression, as if he’d forgotten that Cesare was there and didn’t like to find out that he was.

‘Let. Her. Speak!’ He spat.

Cesare narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Lucrezia was quicker. ‘What would you have me say?’ She hissed at the Pope. ‘You knew what he did to me! You all do! But you stayed your hand, for the good of the _family._ ’

Cesare flinched at the accusation, even though he had tried to help her with Perotto, even though he would have done anything for her. It still had not prevented Perotto’s death, and besides, Cesare had not been completely above the whole “for the good of the family” motto that their father was so fond of.

‘I have wished him dead a thousand times,’ Lucrezia was saying.

 _No, darling,_ he thought, dreading their Father’s response. Yet in the back of his mind, he let the statement comfort him and lend his actions the legitimation that he could not ask for directly.

‘And now,’ Lucrezia went on. ‘Now you want me mourn him?’ She looked down at her dead brother’s pale body with some distaste, and rightly so.

‘I’m sorry Father, I cannot.’

She stumbled backwards then, and Cesare shot forward to put his arms around hers to steady her. She didn’t push him away when she’d found her balance, but straightened her back and put one hand on top of his, all without looking at him once.

Their Father witnessed all this with wide, incredulous eyes. Cesare noticed that his cheeks were wet.

They had arrived at an impasse, and Cesare didn’t know what to do or say. He supposed it would be best to leave without a word, and he squeezed Lucrezia’s arm to signal his intent. Their Father seemed distracted by the sight of his son’s dead body.

But he looked up before Cesare could usher himself and Lucrezia quietly out of the room. It pained Cesare to see that his cheeks seemed more hollow and his body noticeably smaller than a few moments before.

‘Get out,’ he whispered to his children, the ones that still lived.. Both Cesare and Lucrezia were looking at him with horror on their faces, unable to move immediately. When the Pope shouted the words again, and again, and again, the force of that baritone finally sent them flying from the room.


	13. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucrezia and Cesare leave their family with Juan. Cesare tries to comfort a guilt-ridden Lucrezia.

He didn’t want to let go of her after they left that room, but Lucrezia pushed him away and walked stiffly in front of him, her head held high and her back as straight as an arrow. He wasn’t offended by this, because he could see that she was hurting and that she needed the space. Perhaps he did, too. He didn’t seem to feel things the same anymore when he was close to her, and that fact warranted some inspection, preferably at a safe distance from her.

So he didn’t try to walk beside her, though he never got more than two paces behind her for fear of her collapsing. He never knew for sure, when she was all straight and stiff and solitary like that.

She led them through the Vatican without a word. The world around them seemed to imitate their silence. Even the marble held its stony breath, swallowed the echoes it otherwise gave life.

By the time they arrived at Lucrezia’s chambers, Cesare thought she might have forgotten his presence in all that quiet. Even the servants that opened the doors for them hardly noticed that he followed, or chose not to notice (and that, too, warranted inspection).

But the moment the doors were closed behind them, Lucrezia turned around and crashed into him, a wave that had travelled a great distance just to break on some unyielding shore.

He held her, feeling her quiver against him, and let her squeeze his doublet and wet it with her tears.

When the water had subsided, she lifted her head to look up at him. Her eyes gleamed with sadness and he didn’t know what to do to make it go away, nor did he dare ask what caused it.

‘Darling,’ he murmured, and he planted a firm kiss on her forehead.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed her face against his neck. ‘I cannot believe I did that,’ she whimpered, her breath hot and wet on his skin. ‘I broke his h-heart.’

He was somewhat relieved that that was what bothered her, and that it was something he could fix.

‘You didn’t, Crezia,’ he murmured. _I did._

‘I did! I held it in my hands, and I just-I…’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said. He wanted to stroke her hair but it was locked in the hairnet, so he put his hand against the back of her neck instead. She responded by taking a firmer hold of his doublet, as if she wanted to disappear in him completely. The cloth tugged at his body uncomfortably, but he didn’t mind.

‘I just couldn’t stop… squeezing, Cesare,’ she went on, her voice muffled. ‘I couldn’t stop until I’d crushed it. And Juan…’

‘Yes?’ He asked anxiously.

She waited far too long to answer, and when she did it was far from reassuring. ‘I wanted him dead. And now he is,’ she said. Then she let him go, wiped at her eyes and walked over to the bed, seemingly as averse to his nearness as she had been earlier in the hallway.

‘God, our brother is dead,’ she said, as she sat down close to one of the bedposts.

Now fear gripped his heart again. Everything she’d said in that room… did she regret it because she’d said it or because she’d hurt their father with it? _Does she hate the bastard that killed her brother?_

‘Do you…’ He started, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. She’d stood up again and was pacing in front of the bed. She didn’t appear to have heard him.

‘But I don’t feel bad about it. I wanted him dead and I feel no remorse now that he is,’ she said.

It was shameful, the way the air poured back into him, but he couldn’t help himself. If he lost her faith in him, then he would want to join his dear brother.

She turned to him and stared at his face with her eyes as big as the moon, as if she’d heard him think.

‘What’s wrong with me, Ces?’ She exclaimed. Tears were pooling in her eyes again.

He went to her side and took her hands in his. ‘Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with you,’ he urged. ‘It’s Juan, alright? Juan is what is wrong with this family, he always has been. But no longer, my love, I promise. Don’t cry.’

He bent his head to kiss her hands and seal the promise. She laid the palm of her hand on his cheek and peered into his face sadly. ‘Death doesn’t solve everything,’ she said.

_But it’s a start._

He looked down, but she guessed what he was thinking even so. ‘We won’t be the same,’ she said ominously.

‘Us?’ He asked. _Of course, you and me, darling,_ and then the look in her eyes as she’d turned to him in that funeral room; right in front of their father, who’d seen nothing but his grief.

‘This family,’ she said.

He looked away so that her hand dropped from his cheek.

‘Perhaps it wanted change,’ he said curtly. He happened to be looking into the adjoining room, where Giovanni’s cradle was, and was reminded of Agathonica. He’d been rough with her earlier. He did not regret this and he doubted that she would mention anything to Lucrezia – but that was exactly what worried him, he realized now.

‘Where is the nurse?’ He asked.

‘Asleep, I should think,’ Lucrezia replied.

Cesare looked back at her and then at the dark windows. He vaguely remembered seeing the moon when he went to Machiavelli’s, but now the night seemed nothing but a black void. Even the stars were hiding from the Borgias tonight.

‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘You should go to bed.’

‘I cannot sleep, Cesare.’

He turned his face to her again and smiled. ‘People always say that. _You_ always say that.’

She stuck her chin in the air and shook her head. ‘Then I will not sleep. Not when I know that Father is in that room with Juan, awake and tormenting himself.’

Cesare sighed and went to the bedside to straighten out the sheets. They were still as rumpled as an hour ago. A servant should have fixed it. ‘The wound is still fresh. We must let it heal,’ he said. He folded back the sheets and stepped back demonstratively.

Lucrezia ignored the hint completely. ‘And how long will that take?’ She asked, glaring at him with her arms crossed in front of her breast. ‘Didn’t you see Father? Do you really think it is that easy?’

In truth, he had some difficulty fully understanding his father’s grief, since he had long ago decided on what he would do about Juan and had long ago said goodbye to his brother. He had to admit that this had coloured his vision, that it had made him belief somehow that father would see Juan for what he was once he was dead and that he would better be able to put his death into perspective. At some level, Cesare recognized his mistake, but it was still easier to think that it would go away naturally, as most things in life did – especially when they were out of sight.

Cesare went to lean against one of the bedposts and cleared his throat. ‘I think that Juan will leave that room soon, and then so must Father,’ he said to Lucrezia. ‘We will have a funeral to honour our brother and we will say goodbye, all of us, because there is no alternative. Go to bed, Lucrezia.’ He made an impatient gesture to the bed.

‘No,’ Lucrezia said.

He leaned his head back against the pillar and closed his eyes. ‘Then what do you want to do?’

She took up the pacing again. ‘Forget. Be somewhere else,’ she mumbled, more to herself than to him.

‘I happen to know the perfect way to do both,’ He said.

She stopped pacing and regarded him with interest. He clacked his tongue and nodded towards the bed again, then wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She made an ugh-sound and walked over to the window that was furthest from the bed. ‘Stop it, Cesare. You don’t get to decide when I go to sleep, and you don’t have to tuck me in,’ she said, as she tugged at the drapes and looked beyond them into the pitiless black night.

‘Are you sure?’ He asked, and he walked over to the window too. ‘You used to beg me to do it, and you’d scream like a little demon from hell if mother came instead.’ He grabbed her waist and tickled her like he used to do.

That startled her, and she couldn’t hold back an amused yelp – but it had been unintentional, because she slapped his hands and told him to stop. ‘Yes, but I’m not a child anymore!’ She exclaimed, clearly annoyed.

He let her go and stepped back. ‘No. You’re not,’ he said, bowing his head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry. If I cannot persuade you to go to sleep, then I will accept that, and I will leave you. But promise me that you will stay in your room at least and not go roaming around the Vatican. I’m sure it’s full of ghosts tonight.’

_Or the cries of our father mourning his son, and perhaps his other children too._

‘Since when are you bothered by ghosts?’ Lucrezia asked.

He ignored her question and raised his eyebrows, though she had her back turned and couldn’t see. ‘Promise?’

‘Promise,’ she said.

He waited a few seconds, wanting to say more, but there really wasn’t anything to say. It was best to leave her be.

‘Good night, then,’ he said, and he walked to the door.

‘Wait,’ she said, when his hand was already pulling at the doorknob. She’d turned around and was hugging her waist. ‘You don’t have to leave.’

He hesitated but closed the door again. He thought he’d mock her and propose he tuck her in again, but he thought better of it. She was right, anyway: she wasn’t a child anymore, and pretending she was might be easier but it wasn’t going to change a thing. It would still be all bent out of shape, them and her and whatever lay in between.

‘What do you want me to do, Crezia?’ He asked.

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

He waited a short moment. Then he said: ‘Just go to bed, my love,’ and he turned to leave.

‘Read to me,’ she said.

Again he could have mocked her, or he could have left, but he didn’t want to be alone even if it would almost certainly be better. He heard himself say: ‘Read what to you?’

She was quicker to reply now, perhaps afraid that he would leave if she wasn’t quick. ‘Ovid,’ she said.

He smiled and turned around so he could lean against the door. ‘What, the _Ars Amatoria_?’ He joked. It was a book devoted to the seduction of men and women, and the art of love. He remembered that Lucrezia had wanted to read it, but that Adriana forbade it; Adriana had forbidden Catullus too, on account of its profanity, but Cesare had gotten both works for his sister and read them aloud. He hardly ever got past the first few pages, especially with Ovid, because she’d be laughing so hard she wouldn’t hear a word he said.

‘I don’t have the _Ars Amatoria_ ,’ she said now, which he knew was a lie.

She sauntered over to her bed and lay down on her stomach, but at an angle that enabled her to look straight at him.

He grinned at her. ‘Which book, then?’

‘Metamorphoseon,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well that is sure to keep you awake,’ he said.

Lucrezia shrugged and turned around to lie on her back. ‘A book is as good as sleep, if you want to forget or be somewhere else. Like the Rome that belonged to the ancients, or the Olympus that belonged to the old Gods. And according to Metamorphoses, one can even be _something_ else.’ She paused and he watched her look at the canopy of the bed.

‘I would be something else, I think,’ she said then, her voice smaller than before.

‘I don’t think I would like that very much,’ Cesare said, and he meant it. He walked to the bed and around it, to look at her brooding face. ‘Nor do I think that Myrrha was particularly pleased to be turned into a tree, or that Byblis was glad to die in a puddle of her own tears or that Pyramus and Thisbe were proud to have changed the colour of mulberry fruits from white to red because they bled out on them,’ he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. He laid down next to her, on his back, and put his arms behind his head.

Lucrezia turned on her side to look down into his face. He stared past her at the canopy.

‘He wrote stories of positive change, too,’ Lucrezia defended the ancient poet. ‘Change can be good, Cesare.’

‘One may hope so,’ Cesare scoffed. ‘Ovid wrote fourteen books on the subject, did he not?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Still.’

‘Still what?’

He looked at her and saw the clear blue eyes he knew so well. They moved like search lights over his face, as restless as they always were, as if it were a sin and a shame to miss the slightest twitch of a muscle.

‘Still,’ he repeated, and he stuck out his hand to touch her chin. ‘I’d rather _you_ stay just as you are. If forgetting is what you wish, or to be away from this place, then I will take you somewhere else. Anywhere you want. I will take you to Mount Olympus, even, and knock Zeus out of the way so you may sit on his throne. Then we will stay up there together until the world has done the forgetting for us: until it has forgotten the meaning behind our name, and knows us only as deities. Then I will proceed to change everything: the surface of the earth, the shape of the clouds in the heavens and all the people that are somewhere in between. I will change the whole world beyond recognition, until I have carved you out an empire of perfection. Such a metamorphosis I would agree to, little sister, and I would agree to be its agent – but _only_ if you stay the same.’

Her eyes were still searching his face, but they looked different than before. Her eyebrows were knitted closely together, forming a troubled frown.

Since he was looking up at her, it was more difficult to determine what that expression meant, but he thought it was somewhere between confusion and surprise.

He quickly let his hand, which had been touching her chin, drop into his lap, and looked back to the canopy beyond her face.

‘You should write your own book,’ Lucrezia said.

She didn’t sound like she was joking, but he chuckled nonetheless. ‘You would not like it, I think. I’m not greatly skilled with a pen,’ he said.

She sighed, a soft breeze on his face. ‘No, you would hold a sword,’ she said sadly. ‘Well, I would prefer it if you did not change, either. Being a cardinal is safe, at least. Being a warrior is not.’

After a slight hesitation, she added: ‘Look at what happened to Juan.’

The irony of that, of course, was that she was right: he, the cardinal, was perfectly safe, and Juan, the warrior was not. Still, it would be more apt to say that it is the _bad warrior_ (or cardinal, for that matter, for his brother would have made a piss-poor cardinal) that is unsafe. A simple matter of prudence and ability, indeed, of virtue – but a matter so easily and so often overlooked.

But he didn’t say any of that; he just closed his eyes, even though he knew she was watching him closely for a reaction. ‘Would you agree to my holding a book, then?’ He asked.

He could feel her move from the bed, and heard her walk about the room. She returned after a minute or so, and placed something heavy on his breast.

He opened his eyes and saw her sitting next to him, waiting. He took the book from his chest and sat up straight.

‘I promise I will not make you sleep, but may I ask you to lie down even so, my Lady?’ he asked, as he propped himself up against one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed.

She obeyed silently and went to lie on her side so she could still see him.

Cesare turned to the book in his hands. It was the ninth volume, that mostly dealt with the legend of Hercules.

‘Start with the part about the cloak,’ Lucrezia instructed him.

Cesare opened the book and searched for the correct page. ‘This will not end well, if memory serves,’ he remarked, but he found the line and began reading anyway.

‘ _Incense, red wine poured on the marble altar, to make its flames grow brighter in devotion_ ,’ he started, and proceeded to tell his sister of the cloak of poison that took from the faithful Hercules his mortal life; a cloak that was sent him by his own wife, who had been so consumed by love that she had not understood what her love would do to him.

Cesare looked at Lucrezia from time to time. She soon put her head on the pillow instead of supporting it with her hand. He could see that she was tired, and could hear it in her voice when she asked him questions or made remarks on certain passages, which came less and less often.

One remark sparked a discussion, though, and called her back from the threshold of sleep.

‘Is not love the root of all metamorphosis, Cesare? Is that not the point?’ She said, when Cesare had finished the story of Hercules’ birth and was about to move on to the myth of Dryope.

‘In a way, perhaps,’ Cesare said.

‘That’s vague,’ Lucrezia scoffed.’

‘It’s just that you make it sound noble.’ He noticed that he was whispering, as if by speaking less loudly she would forget the discussion and get sleepy again.

She wasn’t one to be shipped off so easily, however. ‘Isn’t it?’ She asked.

‘No, not all of it,’ he replied. ‘Hercules loved his wife, but Deianira poisoned him nonetheless.’

‘But that was done out of love,’ Lucrezia objected. ‘She didn’t know that she was going to poison him.’

‘Their love was cruel, then, and pitiless,’ Cesare said, hoping that that was the end of the matter.

But Lucrezia shook her head against the pillow and said: ‘They cannot be faulted for that.’

Cesare closed the book, put it in his lap and looked at his sister. She was looking at her pillow, seemingly lost in thought.

‘It seems to me that it would be far better if they could,’ Cesare said sharply. ‘Or would you have us all live at the mercy of a whimsical Venus, as Ovid would have it?’

‘We have different gods, now, Cesare,’ Lucrezia said, still looking at the pillow. ‘Perhaps this one is more merciful.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Cesare said, though all he could think of in terms of a deity was Fate, and Fate was the oldest and ficklest deity of all. _Just look at what happened with Juan._

‘Don’t stop,’ Lucrezia said, her voice scarcely more than a breath of air.

He frowned, not knowing what she meant. Then he realized she meant the story, and he opened the book again, even though he hadn’t intended too.

‘Dryope is next,’ he informed her.

‘That’s a good story,’ she answered.

Dryope died at the end of it, in fact, for something as stupid as picking a flower, but he didn’t speak to correct his sister or ask her what she meant. Instead he read the story, while watching her eyelids start to drop down, shoot open and drop down again, until they stayed closed.

He continued reading for a couple of minutes, to finish the story. When he’d read the very last line of it ( _There as he strolled the banks of the Meander - That river that coils its way against its source, - He met Cyane, daughter of the river, - Whose sinuous body gave him deathless pleasure - And of their meeting came the twins, Byblis and Caunus_ ) he closed the book again and put it away. He bent over her so he could pull the blanket up over her shoulders, and then he moved to get out of the bed.

The moment he shifted his weight, she mumbled something. He looked back, nervous that he’d woken her up. Her saw her lips move again, but they didn’t form any audible words.

He shook his head and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

‘Cesare,’ she whispered.

He turned. Her eyes were still closed but her hand was stretched out across the sheet, close to his side. He put his hand on top of hers and waited. She seemed vast asleep.

He hesitated, but finally bowed his head close to hers and kissed her cheek.

‘Sleep well, my love,’ he whispered. His breath made the little hairs on her temple dance.

He started to pull away. To his surprise she squeezed his hand then and mumbled: ‘Stay.’

He could have pretended he hadn’t heard – but then, what was the harm?

So he stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the Metamorphoses stories referenced: the story of Byblis describes a girl who falls in love with her twin brother and Myrrha's story is about how she seduces her father (producing Adonis). Pyrrhamus and Thisbe is not an incestuous but forbidden love. It has been argued that love is at the basis of Ovid's Metamorphoses, the root, cause and product of all change.


	14. Nessuno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare is somewhat startled to wake up in Lucrezia's room, but with the discovery of Juan's body, he must put his head to other matters.

‘My lady?’ A voice called. Cesare vaguely recognized it as the voice of a servant. Not his.

He’d been falling in and out of sleep for forever, and each time he wasn’t sure what was real and what was not. He dreamt many things that even as he dreamt them made little sense. His surroundings kept shifting, as did his own body: he could stand in the Pope’s rooms with Juan’s body lying on a bier, and find himself lying dead on the tabletop in the very next instant. Then he would wink and find himself at a grim funeral, heading a procession in the same white robes the Pope wore; or he would be in Lucrezia’s bed, under her covers and in her embrace like he was Alfonso d’Aragona.

Whatever the location, he was haunted everywhere by a faceless multitude of people that was defined primarily by the force of their displeasure. It was unclear why exactly they were displeased, but he had the strong sense that it had something to do with him personally. They seemed to want nothing to do with him, but it did not keep them from following him around. He was puzzled by this dynamic, he failed to understand their disgust and he had no idea why he cared.

He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn’t obey him: Juan’s pale arms had shot out of freshly dug earth and closed around his ankles. They crawled up higher like slippery spiders until he was completely wrapped in decay and utterly unable to move. His subconscious moved on in a flash and then it was Lucrezia that was embracing him – but his limbs were just as numb if not number, and his body was falling apart faster _faster I’m dying I’m dead I’m gone lost and forgotten but was it worth it?_ While the crowd just watched, its disgust morphed into morbid satisfaction.

‘My lady?’ That voice called again, like a lazy echo.

He made a grumpy sound and told the servant to leave him be, but his voice only seemed to be working in his head. Perhaps the servant was in his head, too, as part of that condescending crowd.

‘In a minute,’ another voice said. He could feel it resonate against his breast.

_Lucrezia._

The last persistent fragments of his dreams finally died when he heard her familiar sound. He noticed that he had his arm around her, which was of course the reason that his limbs had felt numb.

He blinked to shrug off the confusion, removed his arm from around her and rolled onto his back.

He ought to get up and slip away through Giovanni’s room.

_Just one moment more will not hurt anyone._

And if it did, would he mind?

Lucrezia turned on her other side and looked at his face through half-closed eyes. He returned her look and waited for the realization to hit her. He’d leave then, he’d have to.

But she nudged closer to him and pushed her head against his arm, which lay stretched out between them. ‘You were awake? But I was sleeping so soundly,’ she mumbled. She put her right arm around his midriff and rubbed her cheek against his arm, humming as if to recast the spell of sleep.

‘I know, my love,’ he whispered. He wondered why he whispered, and why he lay there as tense as a wire when in truth, lying there was the most familiar feeling in the world. Where was the shame in that? Indeed, where was that crowd of hateful people?

Besides, they’d been like this before. They’d both been children, but they were permitted some nostalgia in a time like this. Surely having a murdered brother and having murdered a brother warranted a temporary retreat into one’s early childhood.

Having found a viable explanation, Cesare rid himself of his uncomfortable exterior and put his arm around Lucrezia again.

He thought the servant outside had taken the hint and left, but it seemed that she’d been counting that minute instead. ‘My lady, if I may…’ she started. He could just see her breathing uncertainly against the door.

He wondered who it was. Estelle or Mila, probably. He hoped it wasn’t Estelle.

‘What is it, Mila?’ Lucrezia asked snappily.

Mila. _So that’s one small mercy._

‘There is someone here to see-’

‘Tell them that patience is a virtue,’ Lucrezia interrupted her maid. After a short interval, she added: ‘And that I never see anyone at this hour.’

That reminded Cesare of the world outside – the most unpleasant aspect of each morning, without a doubt – and he realized that since they’d gone to bed at an outrageously late hour, it was probably far into the morning already He wondered if their father had had any sleep at all, and thought that he should go to check. There were a million other things to do after that. They’d arrived at a critical stage, now that everyone knew of Juan’s death. There was no room for mistakes anymore, no more running.

There had been an ominous pause at the other end of the door before Mila’s voice drifted into the room again. ‘He is not here to see _you_ , my lady,’ she said. She sounded rather intimidated.

Lucrezia lifted her head from his breast to look up at him.

Cesare’s first thought – a rather disconcerting one – was that it might be their father. But even if the Pope had left Juan, he would surely have been in a terrible emotional state, and in that case the Pope would have simply barged into the room without knocking.

His second thought was of Alfonso d’Aragona, which was amusing but unlikely. Although Alfonso would never barge in, Mila had said that the guest was not looking for Lucrezia. It would be odd for her prospective husband to go to her chambers to find anyone but her, wouldn’t it?

Only then did Cesare consider the only person who _would_ think to come to Lucrezia’s rooms when his own proved empty, and who would never barge in unless it was a life-threatening situation.

The fact that he’d come to the door instead of lingering somewhere nearby meant that it was urgent, or that it was much later in the day than Cesare thought. Perhaps both.

‘Send him in, Mila,’ Cesare said to the servant, and to a frowning Lucrezia: ‘It’s Micheletto.’

They both knew that Micheletto would not be interested either in Lucrezia’s appearances or in Cesare’s sleeping habits, but Cesare still removed his arm. Lucrezia unwrapped herself from him and stroked her hair.

The maid opened the door and preceded Cesare’s redhaired henchman into the room. Mila kept her eyes glued stoically to the floor, which, now that Cesare saw it, was almost as annoying as the plethora of expressions on Estelle’s face when she’d walked in the other day.

‘Thank you, Mila,’ he said deliberately, before nodding to his henchman.

Mila still did not look up, but he could see her cheeks flare a bright red. ‘My lord Borgia,’ she said with a hasty curtsy, before addressing her mistress: ‘Shall I prepare your dress for today, my lady?’

‘No, fetch me another robe, and draw back the curtains, please, Mila,’ Lucrezia replied, before getting out of bed. She was still wearing the robe from the night before over her shift, having forgotten to take it off, and now it looked crumpled.

She went into Giovanni’s chamber while the maid rushed to do as she’d been told. Micheletto remained standing close to the door, his eyes fleeing to the floor when Lucrezia passed by him. He still received a suspicious look from Mila over her shoulder as she was opening the shutters.

Cesare was surprised to see that it was not as late in the morning as he’d thought: judging by the light, they couldn’t have slept for more than three or four hours.

He folded back the bedcovers and sat on the side of the bed for a moment rubbing his face to fully wake himself.

‘Did he cry, Agatha? I never heard him,’ He heard his sister ask.

He realized he’d half forgotten that Micheletto was waiting, and looked up at his henchman. Micheletto was staring discreetly at the furthest wall, actively avoiding to look at Cesare, even though Cesare was hardly indecent in his breeches and shirt.

_As if I would have let anyone in if I had worn any less._

No, no, _as if I would ever be indecent._

‘The Holy Father, I suppose?’ Cesare asked his henchman, trying to steer his mind away from the topic of propriety.

‘Yes,’ Micheletto said in his gritty voice.

Cesare stood up and looked around the room, searching for his shoes. ‘They’re next to the dresser,’ Lucrezia said. She had come back into the room wearing a new robe and holding Giovanni in her arms.

Cesare spotted them and put them on. Technically his outfit was complete with that: he hadn’t worn a cloak when he went to the Florentine ambassador the night before. It seemed like an eternity ago.

He looked at his henchman, who was still staring at the wall as if seeing someone put on his shoes was like watching a hooker swing her breasts in your face.

‘How is he?’ Cesare asked.

‘He has not left the room,’ Micheletto replied. ‘He requested your presence, my Lord.’

Cesare frowned and was about to reply when he remembered that his sister was listening. The last thing she needed was to worry more about their Father. So he nodded to Micheletto and went to Lucrezia and Giovanni. He kissed the child’s head and said to Lucrezia: ‘Rest some more today, sister, and please, do not fret.’ He squeezed her chin playfully and turned to go.

She shifted Giovanni to one arm so she could grab the end of his shirt sleeve, preventing him from walking away. He turned back expectantly. Her eyes were like searchlights across his face and her mouth opened and closed several times, but she struggled to get the words across her lips. He understood what she meant, though. _Be kind to him, make up for what we did, show him we’re sorry,_ things like that.

‘I will,’ he said softly, though he would have said anything to drive that sad look from her eyes.

He felt another pair of eyes on him and looked past his sister into Giovanni’s room. Agathonica stood behind the empty cradle, regarding him with her catlike eyes. He tried to discern rancour or hatred in them, but there was none. He briefly wondered whether he’d really choked her and called her a whore or dreamt about it.

He decided that it didn’t matter and focused on his sister again. She wasn’t looking at him, but through her lashes he could see her eyes glittering with tears. With her hair freed from the black snood she’d worn, her baby cradled in her arms and that mournful look on her face, she looked like Maria holding the dead body of her son.

He wanted to stay, but he really couldn’t.

He bent forward, protectively putting his hand on Giovanni’s head, and kissed her cheek. He had to admit that it felt odd with Micheletto in the room and Agathonica staring at them, but he reminded himself that there was no reason it should be odd.

Lucrezia smiled at him before focusing her attention on Giovanni, which made it slightly easier to turn to Micheletto and leave her behind.

When he and Micheletto walked through the hallways a minute later – having been served by a nervous curtsey and a quivering “my lord” from Mila, who had let them out – they never spoke of Juan’s death, the Holy Father’s reaction to it or Lucrezia’s. Cesare didn’t think there was any need to do so: they’d both known this moment would come, and it had. They’d both had time enough to think about it, so now was the time to be decisive, not contemplative.

When Cesare asked after his Father’s demeaner, Micheletto told him that the Pope had been heard to pray and chant all night. Cesare just nodded, because he hadn’t expected much else.

‘There is another thing, my Lord,’ Micheletto said, after a slight hesitation. ‘The Duke of Bisceglie and Salerno requests an audience.’

‘The Duke of Bisceglie and Salerno?’ Cesare repeated. He’d been thinking about his Father and about Lucrezia despite his vow to commit fully to decisiveness. For a moment he couldn’t imagine why he would need to host some duke.

‘Your sister’s fiancé,’ Micheletto explained, just as this realization hit Cesare.

‘Yes. Decline,’ he said brusquely.

Micheletto didn’t question his decision or ask for a reason, but limited himself to: ‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘On account of our recent family tragedy,’ Cesare explained anyway. 

‘Of course, my Lord.’

They came at a juncture, and Cesare led Micheletto into a smaller hallway that was mostly empty. ‘We have to start searching for Juan’s killer now, before the Pope has a chance to give any orders,’ he said, making sure to keep his voice low. They already had a couple of suspects lined up, and now was the time to bring them forward. All would be lost if they couldn’t control the investigation.

‘I will start with your brother’s companion,’ Micheletto nodded.

This companion had been a complete and initially unwelcome surprise. It concerned a masked man with a thick Sicilian accent (and a broad Sicilian face, as they would later find out), who had shown up at Vanozza’s banquet together with Juan and been introduced as the latter’s guest. His presence had gone largely unexplained apart from that short introduction, and he’d spoken little. Cesare assumed Juan had found the man in some whorehouse he’d stumbled out of before going to his mother’s and appointed him his bodyguard or drinking mate for the night; perhaps both. Micheletto was sceptical about this: he’d suggested that the man might be more than a bodyguard, and that Juan had brought him to attack Cesare. That would have been ironic, but it didn’t matter anymore: the masked man was dead now. His fate had been unavoidable from the moment he left the banquet at Juan’s side.

Juan and his friend had both gone into the same inn, come out after two hours and then walked into the same brothel. To Cesare’s and Micheletto’s luck (and the men’s misfortune), Juan had emerged from the brothel earlier than his companion had. This had given Micheletto the chance to embrace the masked man with his garotte and Cesare the chance to commit fully to his fratricidal designs.

Seeing as the masked man was dead, then, he could not point to the murderer of Juan Borgia – nor could he be made to confess to the crime, which in retrospect would have been ideal. Yet the beauty of dead men is that they cannot speak for themselves, which still offered Cesare a unique opportunity.

Many people would be accused of the murder of Juan – both as a consequence of Cesare’s design and because of the sheer fact that Juan had been unpopular in his lifetime – but everyone had seen the masked man at the banquet. Cesare would have the whole of Rome searching for him, but of course no one would find him. Everyone would assume that the man had fled, which of course indicated his guilt. It might be speculated that it was some known face beneath the mask, but that was alright as long as it wasn’t Cesare. It couldn’t have been, for Cesare had been at the banquet in addition to the masked man. So the masked man, it would seem, was a perfect strawman.

Cesare wasn’t sure about getting out their best trick first, though, by going after the masked man like Micheletto proposed. If it was assumed that the man, who wasn’t anywhere to be found since he’d remained anonymous even and especially now that he was dead, offered no satisfactory explanation for Juan’s death, then he’d be put aside and Cesare would lose his hand. He was especially fearful that this would happen because Juan had been the Pope’s favourite, and so the Pope might discount the idea that his son had been murdered by a mere nobody, a man without a face.

Even more problematic was the fact that the general public would agree: after all, when it came to the death of a nobleman, it is hardly satisfactory for his murderer to be a nobody. Indeed, the most sensational thing would be the truth: that the nobleman, the Gonfalonier of the Catholic Church, had been murdered by his very own nobleman-brother, who was a Prince of the Church. Naturally Cesare much preferred for the murderer to be a _nessuno_ , even if the Pope, the people and history itself preferred shameless sensation.

So Cesare said to Micheletto: ‘You know my worry, Micheletto. It might be better to look in other directions first. The Sforza’s perhaps, or the Orsini.’

Everyone in the Curia was wondering about the Vice-Chancellor’s lengthy absence, which had been an unexpected turn in Cesare’s favour especially since he had nothing to do with it. As for the Orsini, their virtue (their only one, in Cesare’s opinion) was that they looked guilty even when they weren’t trying. Everyone would expect them to point the finger at the Orsini.

‘Your Father will know about Juan’s companion and wonder what became of him,’ Micheletto pointed out, as he had done before.

Cesare nodded and bit on the inside of his cheek, mulling it over again. ‘Alright,’ he said at last. ‘But we must draw it out. Start the search, find that brothel they visited but shift the focus to others when you have done so. I will suggest to the Holy Father that the man is alive and in Rome. Then when the greater names have passed Everyone’s lips we shall again return to our Nobody, and we will crucify him.’

‘By which time nobody will be any- and everybody,’ Micheletto remarked.

Cesare grinned. ‘A miraculous transformation: from _nessuno_ to _qualcuno_ ,’ he said.

Then they both went their separate ways: Micheletto to hunt down the ghost of an assassin, and Cesare to change into his Cardinal’s robes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When reading about the masked man at the banquet, who apparently was really there, I was reminded of Cesare: he spends a great part of season two running around incognito in that green mask - perhaps that's a wink to history there?


	15. The New Pope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare speaks to his Father and heads consistory in the Pope's place.

Cesare found both his father and his brother in exactly the same place as the previous day, with the former leaning on the bier and the latter lying on top of it. He thought this was a bad sign, even though Juan, of course, had the excuse of being dead.

‘You should lie down, Father,’ Cesare said carefully.

His Father turned to look at his son and appeared to be taking him in, as if he had stumbled from darkness into light and had to wait until his eyes were accustomed before he could appreciate what was in front of him. It took a long time. Finally he simply turned around to look at his dead son again.

‘We would speak with you,’ he said, though he sounded far from focussed.

Cesare walked further into the room so he could face his Father. ‘Of course, but not here, Father,’ he said, avoiding to look at his brother.

‘We are not leaving our son,’ the Pope said resolutely.

‘I do not ask that you do,’ Cesare said, though he would like to. ‘Just the other room.’

When his Father still hesitated, he called to the guards outside and told one of them to continue his watch inside, until they were back. Only then, and with the greatest reluctance, did the Pope agree to be led into the next room, where he slept. Cesare waited until his Father had sat down on the foot of his bed before he took up a place in the same chair he’d been in last time he was in the room.

‘You wanted to speak with me, Father?’ He asked softly.

The Pope nodded, but it took him over a minute to formulate a question. ‘Do you remember your last words to him, Cesare?’

‘Not particularly,’ Cesare said immediately. He hadn’t thought about it and didn’t have a wish to do so now. His father continued staring at him, though, so he felt himself forced to add: ‘I suppose I wished him a pleasant evening, before he went into town. After the banquet at mother’s.’

The Pope nodded again. ‘We cannot remember what our last words were to our son, or what his last words were to us,’ he said.

‘They will come back to you, Father.’

‘What if they do not?’ The Pope asked, and clutched at the cross that hung against his breast. ‘What if God would take that too?’

‘It is not God that has failed you,’ Cesare replied, both annoyed and thrilled because he could so easily add: _it is me._ But he said: ‘It is your memory. But your memory will be restored in time, when you feel better. When you’ve had sleep and food. I’ve ordered the kitchens to bring up bread, fruit and water.’

‘We will not…’ The Pope started, then let his sentence die out.

‘You will not _what_?’ Cesare asked, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. ‘Eat? Sleep? Live?’

‘Our son did not live,’ the Pope said.

_But I do._

‘God did not protect him. God has abandoned us. We are-’ The Pope stopped abruptly. He let go of his cross and looked at his hands as if he’d never seen them before. ‘ _I_ am alone,’ he concluded.

This was not at all going in the direction Cesare had hoped for, and he disliked that. He’d expected anger and tears after a slow build-up of confused emotions, not this tragic, one-note desperation. He had no idea what to do with it.

‘ _You_ are God’s representative on earth,’ he said. ‘Your very person sacred and your position derived from divine authority. But even His Holiness the Pope must eat and sleep and live.’

The words could either have been interpreted as a motivational speech or as an outburst of semi-sarcastic irritation. From the Pope’s lack of reaction, it clearly didn’t matter which.

Cesare sighed and rubbed his hands together uncomfortably. ‘I wanted to let you know, Father, that I will speak to the Cardinals at Nones. I will tell them of what’s happened, although they likely know already. It doesn’t matter. The point is not to inform as much as to _be_ informed. These Cardinals all have large families with large grudges against our family. Against my brother.’ He looked at his Father expecting a passionate reaction at last. _Could it be one of the Roman families, Cesare? Could they be so bold?_ Then he would leap out of his seat and demand to lead consistory, so that he could look each and every Cardinal in the eye and see for himself who was guilty of murdering his beloved son. The Pope’s wrath would be terrible, and Cesare would calm him down and prevent him from going down to the Sistine Chapel to wreak such havoc. He was sleep-deprived, after all, and half-mad with grief.

But the Pope remained seated .Indeed, he barely acknowledged Cesare’s presence let alone his words.

‘You are not expected to attend consistory, of course,’ Cesare said, giving his Father a last chance to react in some significant way. When he didn’t, he just hmpf-ed, muttered an excuse and left the Pope in his bedroom. He didn’t have time to get sucked into the Pope’s spiritual crisis; consistory was due to start soon.

And had he ever seriously expected that he would be the one to save his Father from his grief, grief Cesare himself had caused? Was this not the reason that he had committed himself to the post of a glorified Secretary of State, or a pope by proxy? He would just have to ask Giulia or his mother to intercede and hope for the best next time he spoke with his Father.

When he walked past the guard that was watching over Juan, he barked: ‘See that he eats.’

‘Cardinals,’ Cesare greeted his colleagues, when they had found their seats. He let his eyes glide over the rows of red frocks that sat along the walls of the Sistine Chapel. ‘Does anyone know if Cardinal Sforza and Cardinal Orsini will be joining us, or for what reasons they are absent today?’ He asked. He hadn’t expected Sforza to show up, but no one had told him that Orsini had fled as well. Perhaps Micheletto had already started investigating the Roman family, in which case he was even quicker than Cesare gave him credit for.

Cardinal Piccolomini, who happened to be sitting next to one empty spot on the wooden benches, raised an age-spotted hand.

‘Cardinal Piccolomini, you know of their whereabouts?’ Cesare asked him.

‘Oh, no, indeed, I do not know,’ the Cardinal stammered, looking a little non-plussed.

Cesare narrowed his eyes at the old man. ‘Shocking,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Thank you for your contribution. I suppose that means we can start.’

‘But the Pope…’ Cardinal Piccolomini started saying.

‘Ah, yes. The Pope will not be attending today,’ Cesare said.

Cardinal Pallavicini Gentili, who had taken over the bishopric of Pamplona from Cesare a couple of years earlier, lifted himself a little way out of his seat. ‘You would take his place?’ He asked, remembering halfway through his sentence that it would be offensive to sound too indignant. Cesare was still a child of the Pope, and they all knew how the Pope loved his children. Besides, if the Pope would let his daughter act as regent, then why not his son, who was at least a cardinal – and a man?

‘No, Cardinal Gentili,’ Cesare said calmly. ‘But I have an announcement and it cannot wait, I’m afraid. A tragic event has occurred this past night. You must forgive me if I seem distraught.’

‘Is it the French?’ One Cardinal said. 

‘Do they have cannons? I’ve heard it rumoured they have twice as many as the last time,’ resounded the voice of another.

Cesare shook his head. ‘It is worse, Cardinals,’ he said, and paused to give silence a chance to return. Then he said, in a grave voice: ‘Last night, the lifeless body of the Gonfalonier of our Holy Mother Church, my dearest brother Juan Borgia, was discovered in one of the city’s mortuaries.’

Most cardinals gasped theatrically and made some whispered commentary, but they were ominously subdued beyond that. They probably thought that Juan had had too many pleasures than was good for a man and had drowned in a bath in some whorehouse. Cesare couldn’t blame them for thinking it: he’d spent a long while hoping that such a thing would happen, but he’d realized that he couldn’t forever rely on fate to intervene on his behalf.

‘He was dragged from the Tiber two days before he was discovered by the Papal guard in the mortuary. His body was marked by soil and water, but it was evident that the cause of his death was the great loss of blood he suffered due to multiple stab wounds in his stomach,’ Cesare continued. He kept his voice cool and even, but surreptitiously placed his hand on his stomach as if he himself carried his brother’s wounds.

Most of the Cardinals regarded him with silent shock. A few of them were looking at their shoes as if they were embarrassed. Perhaps they had considered the possibility that Juan had fallen on his own sword, thinking that he wasn’t much skilled with it, especially when he was drunk. In other words, it seemed that a couple of Cardinals thought Juan Borgia had gotten nothing more than his due and felt conflicted about having such thoughts in the presence of Cesare Borgia.

Cesare stood up from his throne and raised his voice for effect: ‘My brother was murdered, Cardinals, and tossed into the river like a lowly criminal!’

Now his audience finally stirred, and started showing signs of collective surprise, indignation, anger and grief.

‘Not the Pope’s son!’

‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘The audacity!’

‘What of the Pope?’

Cesare let the remarks wash over him. ‘The Holy Father is healthy, but he is in mourning. He will need time to recover and to pray for the soul of his son and my brother,’ he said, when the Cardinals had just about run out of supporting commentary. ‘Your prayers would be most welcome too, Cardinals. In the meantime, the Pope has instructed me to take care of certain matters that must be dealt with without delay.’

_He would have instructed me to do so if he had had more presence of mind, anyway, but no need to bother anyone with such details._

‘Will you replace your illustrious brother as captain of the papal armies?’ Cardinal Gentili asked, careful this time to make his question sound neutral.

‘A Cardinal, as Gonfalonier of the Church?’ Reacted Cardinal Piccolomini, less neutral.

They had all the tact and elegance of an elephant in a porcelain shop, the Curia; they just couldn’t help themselves. It didn’t matter. ‘That post remains vacant for the time-being,’ Cesare told them. ‘The French are not on the march yet, Your Eminences. In fact, King Louis has replaced Charles’ ambassador, and has thus far assured us via letter of his love for our Holy Mother Church.’ He thought his Father had been introduced to the ambassador shortly before Juan had died.

He didn’t believe for a moment that the Church could rely on King Louis’ words, of course, and he didn’t expect the ambassador would be able to change that in a significant way. For one thing, because _every_ monarch seemed to think they had a claim to a piece if not all of Italy, less because of some legitimate family connection than because of the weak and divided mess that was the Italian peninsula; for another thing, because King Louis had fought as a condottiere for King Charles during his campaign on Italy, and although it didn’t appear that Louis was as rash and proud a ruler as his predecessor, he was clearly ambitious and assertive.

Still, it was a good sign that Louis had sent his good wishes and renewed his ambassador at the Papal court. Perhaps the King had his hands full with other matters of state, or perhaps he needed something from the Papacy other than land… Cesare would have to probe the ambassador for that information. The audience would have to be in private, though. If the Curia was present, they might in their loathing and fear for the French try to exorcise the man, which was about as diplomatic as was that elephant.

Even now the Cardinals balked at Cesare’s reassurances, starting to whisper about cannons and betrayal again. ‘However!’ Cesare interrupted them, trying to lead their attention back to the matter at hand. ‘Florence has yet to pass a sentence on the heretic Girolamo Savonarola, and our alliance to the Kingdom of Naples has yet to take shape. With the disbandment of the Holy League and the questionable state of our finances, this alliance would prove beneficial to the Church,’ he said, anticipating more whispers and indignation at the suggestion that Lucrezia Borgia’s marriage was important Church business.

He turned to a young blonde Cardinal who had the exact same slanted blue eyes his sister did. ‘Cardinal Farnese, I wonder if you could prepare a report of the exact state of our finances?’ He asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to another Cardinal, an older man who had come from Valencia and was therefore about ten times more trustworthy than any other Cardinal sitting in the chapel. ‘Cardinal Lopéz,’ he said. ‘In addition to a financial report, I would also have a report on the state of the papal arms. You will be aided in this by Vitellozzo Vitelli and Prospero and Fabrizio Colonna, who are experts in matters of war’ – and condottiere that worked for him, though it was better if no one knew that – ‘I will bring these reports to the Holy Father for reviewing, if he has not yet regained enough strength to receive visitors. Please know that your support is greatly appreciated.’

He got up, ready to dismiss the Cardinals and end the show, when he saw the small, soberly-clad notary that was Johann Burckhardt wringing his hands at the base of the platform Cesare stood on. Cesare silently cursed himself for forgetting the most important thing. ‘Of course the most pressing matter is my brother’s funeral,’ he said with extra force, so that it seemed he’d stood up to make a point. He nodded to Burckhardt. ‘The Master of Ceremonies has graciously agreed to take on the arrangements, and has assured me that all will be ready in three days. Your attendance is required, as is that of Cardinal Sforza and Cardinal Orsini. Cardinal Piccolomini, I would be much obliged if you could look into the whereabouts of our esteemed colleagues. So then, if there is nothing else…’

The Cardinals started getting up, producing a great symphony of creaking benches. Cesare staid on his platform, waiting for the right time to say just one more thing. When the Cardinals were in disarray, taking up their furious whispers again, he demanded their attention one last time.

‘Oh, lest I forget,’ he said in a loud voice, so that the Cardinals’ voices died out and their faces turned back to him. ‘I have ordered a thorough investigation into the identity of my brother’s murderer. This heinous crime will not go unpunished. Whoever had the audacity to touch a Borgia will feel the cold embrace of death before my brother’s body falls into the cold embrace of God’s earth.’

Only then did he leave the Pope’s throne and joined his own red frock with the others in the room.


	16. A Song of Incessance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesare starts the negotiations of Lucrezia's dowry with the ambassador of Naples and talks matters over with his henchman.

While the Florentine ambassador handled the Savonarolan issue, Burckhardt took care of Juan’s funeral, Micheletto led the investigation into Juan’s death, and the Pope wallowed in his grief, Cesare could focus on his meetings with the ambassadors and the alliances of the Church. Burckhardt had arranged for him to meet the Neapolitan ambassador first, the next morning; he would see the French ambassador the day after, and the day after that would be Juan’s funeral. Cesare had rather started with Juan’s funeral, but it was already a risky decision to meet with the ambassadors when he was expected to be grieving; pushing for a quick funeral might not go over well with the public. Not to mention that he and Micheletto were still preparing the grounds for Juan’s murder mystery, which was not going at all as smoothly as Cesare had hoped. He didn’t know how Micheletto was faring, but he had failed to bring up the matter of guilt, let alone retribution, with the Pope during their last meeting. He could only hope that his Father would be more receptive after he’d had some sleep.

Not surprisingly, Cesare was glad to be able to focus on something other than Juan – whether it concerned the apathy of his Father or the various issues Burckhardt wanted to take up with Cesare about the funeral. Yet he found himself seriously reconsidering this sentiment soon after he struck up the conversation with the Neapolitan ambassador.

The ambassador’s name was Vidiano Ascia, Duke of Nevers in central France. The man was about the same height as Cesare and his hair was the same length and almost the same blackish brown, but that was where the similarities ended. The ambassador had regal features, with a long, narrow nose and cheekbones so high and cheeks so narrow that it made his face look almost gaunt. His skin was several shades paler than anyone’s in the room, with the exception of waxy surfaces of the candles. His hair was as straight as an arrow, and the beard he sported didn’t amount to as much as the man probably would have liked. He wasn’t muscular or lean, to the point that his rich brocade doublet and fur-lined coat seemed to weigh him down. All of this did not paint the image of an impressive man, or even one to be feared. Yet as his narrowed brown eyes (the colour reminding of dead, dry tree bark) darted across the room, he inspired the opposite of trust. He appeared skittish, frivolous and nervous like a man who suspects he is the perpetual centre of a cruel joke and will just as easily burst out laughing as he will draw a dagger and plant it in the belly of the man nearest to him. He did greet Cesare with a wide smile and kind words, but his eyes never stopped jumping from one surface to the other.

Vidiano Ascia was accompanied by two young servants and two men he introduced as ambassadors, although Cesare was fairly sure that their function was ceremonious because they hardly addressed him at all. The only comments they made were directed at Ascia, and were conducted in such a heavy Neapolitan tongue that Cesare could hardly understand them.

Ascia himself talked as smoothly as a song bird, and never shut up, either. Cesare was introduced to new levels of boredom when the ambassador managed to single-handedly maintain the topic of servants’ livery for a duration of two hours, apparently greatly concerned about the design as well as who would be paying for it. Cesare succeeded in getting a word in perhaps once or twice, to say that the Papacy was more than happy to take charge of design as well as payment, but he might have been speaking Greek for all that Ascia understood.

These dowry negotiations were always dreadful, Cesare knew, and it was logical that the focus was on money since that was usually the most controversial issue – but he simply could not label servants’ livery as controversial, however often he tried during the two hours that Ascia spoke of it.

When the ambassador finally came to the end of his tenth soliloquy, to listen to something his Neapolitan companions told him, Cesare cleared his throat and said: ‘We should move on to different matters, Signor Ascia.’ It was a little too blunt, perhaps, but it was all he could do not to get up and walk out without another word. The man _had_ to realize that he was unnecessarily wordy, hadn’t he?

‘Perhaps we could discuss the matter of residence?’ Cesare asked, rubbing his forehead. It would be a prickly matter, but at least that meant Cesare wouldn’t die of boredom today.

Ascia blinked but then smoothly took up the new topic as if they’d never spoken of anything else. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘A palace can be made available in Naples, courtesy of the Crown of Naples. However, I fear that the ducats reserved for decoration and other such renovations cannot be supplied in its entirety by us. Hopefully the Papacy will understand that this is in the spirit of fairness and tradition, and that it does not diminish our devotion to this alliance nor our affection for the couple itself.’

‘We feel most venerated that Naples would favour this alliance with a palace, Signor Ascia, it is very generous. I’m sure that we can find a way to come up with the ducats necessary for its renovation,’ Cesare said, nodding his head. ‘But before we do that, I think it is necessary to speak of residence not in terms of ducats but in terms of the broader living arrangements?’

‘However you wish,’ Ascia said, and for the first time he left it at that. He regarded Cesare with curiosity.

‘I would propose that the Lady Lucrezia resides in Rome for a period of twelve months, together with her husband the Duke Alfonso d’Aragona,’ Cesare said.

‘That is a rather lengthy period,’ Ascia said, after a moment’s thought. 'Especially considering that this is not the Lady’s first time…’ He saw Cesare glare at him and cleared his throat. ‘Abroad.’

Cesare’s affection for the man, which had been steadily declining for the past couple of hours, took a deep dive. He grinded his teeth together but thought it wiser to ignore the implication. ‘I further propose that the Lady and the Duke are not legally required to take up permanent residence in Naples,’ he said, thinking that he might as well deliver it all in one blow.

He didn’t expect Ascia to like the idea, but even the proud Neapolitans had to understand the Papacy’s position on the matter: Naples’ track record for safeguarding their state was spotty to say the least, its track record defending its rulers even worse, and its ownership was still a matter of international contestation – whereas Rome would belong to the Pope as long as the Western world considered itself Christian.

Ascia spoke a few words with his fellow “ambassadors” before focusing on Cesare again. ‘Duke Alfonso d’Aragona is Neapolitan royalty. His place is in Naples,’ he said, predictably.

‘Likewise, the place of Lady Lucrezia Borgia is in Rome, which has been in papal hands for the past five decades. And Rome, of course, is home to all Christians,’ Cesare replied evenly.

‘With all respect due to the glorious house of Borgia and the Pope’s noble lineage, the Lady Lucrezia Borgia will be her husband’s charge, not the pope’s. This is what the Bible says. And the Lady Lucrezia _was_ wed once before, Your Eminence.’ Ascia bowed his head in what Cesare could only judge was mock reverence. The ambassador wasn’t smiling when he looked up again, but his solemn expression made it worse for Cesare. The man was lecturing a _cardinal_ on the contents of the Bible, not to mention he was implying that this was Lucrezia’s second marriage – which was true in practice, but in theory her marriage had been annulled as if it never existed. It was bold of the ambassador to imply that it had in negotiations such as these, and it made Cesare dislike him even more.

‘With all respect due to the noble house of Aragon, Signor Ascia,’ Cesare said sharply. ‘Duke Alfonso d’Aragona is the illegitimate child of the previous King of Naples. Lucrezia Borgia is the ward of His Holiness the Pope, representative of God on earth, and will remain so despite the noble institution of marriage. Surely you do not mean to tell me that a Duke outweighs a Pope.’

Judging by his expression, Ascia disagreed. He did not push the matter further, however, but said, a little sourly: ‘I feel compelled to mention that this is most unusual, Your Eminence.’

‘I understand,’ Cesare nodded. ‘But this alliance is unusual, and unusual alliances require unusual measures.’

Ascia bowed his head in thought, his eyes darting restlessly across the table between them. Cesare silently regarded the dark tip of the man’s head, and didn’t look away when Ascia lifted it again. ‘But we can establish that this alliance is also a marriage, Your Eminence, is it not?’ Ascia said slowly.

Cesare shrugged, waiting for the point and watching the man smack his lips as if he were consciously trying to emphasize what a despicable person he was. ‘And a wife’s place is beside her husband,’ Ascia said. ‘Not her brother.’ He bore his eyes into Cesare’s before letting them drift down Cesare’s face and his torso. The subtext could not be more clear.

_I know and judge you, Cardinal Cesare Borgia, and I say that you are nothing without your Father the Pope at your side._

Cesare had to squeeze the armrests to prevent from squeezing the ambassador’s throat. He had to remember that he was also doing this for his sister and for her happiness, and that he could not risk that only because this fool of a man had started a staring contest and Cesare was the first to blink.

So he made sure, but only with the greatest effort, to keep his face pure stone.

‘It has been a long day. Perhaps we should resume our talks at a later time,’ he said, while he thought: _You do no impress me, Signor Ascia, and if I could I would rip off your face with my teeth._

He smiled courteously.

Ascia returned the smile, then stood and bowed his head. ‘I look forward to continuing this talk, Cardinal Borgia. I am confident that the union of House Aragon and House Borgia will be a most happy one,’ he said, before he and his party took their leave.

Cesare had flung the copper chalice of water off the table and was just kicking over a second chair when his henchman entered the room. Micheletto hardly took the time to look surprised, but quickly assessed the situation and turned around to whisper something to the guards outside.

‘Naples is making unreasonable demands, my Lord?’ He asked, when he’d closed the doors behind him.

‘ _Naples_ is running its mouth,’ Cesare replied, breathing heavily from his outburst. ‘Have you been successful today?’

‘I have information on the Cardinal Vice Chancellor,’ Micheletto said. He walked over to Cesare and picked the copper chalice up off the ground to put it back on the table. He weighed the chalice in his hand and peered inside, then gave Cesare a quick glance. Cesare shrugged by way of permission.

‘You know where Sforza is? He’s not dead, is he?’ he asked, watching how Micheletto grabbed the cups Cesare and one of the Neapolitan ambassadors had drunk from. He filled both with the small amount of wine that by some miracle had stayed inside the chalice.

‘No, I have not found him, my Lord, although I doubt that he is dead. I think I may know why the red bird left his marble nest,’ his henchman said, and he offered Cesare a cup. Cesare shook his head.

‘He has a reason for that, does he? It never occurred to me that he might,’ he said mockingly.

Micheletto emptied Cesare’s cup in one jerky movement and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It would seem that Juan had a disagreement with Cardinal Sforza a few days before his death, and that on the night Juan disappeared, he stopped at Cardinal Sforza’s palace at the Ponte Sant Angelo,’ he said. They both knew that this wasn’t true, since they had seen Juan walk past Sforza’s palace. Cesare almost felt bad for the man.

‘What was the nature of this disagreement?’ He asked.

‘That was unclear, my Lord. According to the Sforza’s, the disagreement was one-sided, with your brother awarding the red bird with a petty insult and the red bird appearing… dissatisfied.’ Micheletto shrugged before he emptied the cup from the ambassador that he’d held onto.

‘His continued absence does not speak in his favour,’ Cesare remarked.

‘He fears assault from the Spanish,’ Micheletto said.

Cesare chuckled. ‘Of late, everyone in Rome fears assaults from the Spanish. He must realize that he is the Vice Chancellor,’ he said. ‘Well, there will be more suspects soon.’ He went to lean against the side of the table and regard his henchman, who was nudging his foot against one of the chairs Cesare had kicked over.

‘What is the Pope’s opinion of Juan’s murder, my Lord?’ Micheletto asked, without looking up.

‘I have no idea,’ Cesare confessed, and felt his bad mood return. ‘I doubt he heard a word I said yesterday morning, and today I was held up by the Neapolitan ambassadors, discussing Lucrezia’s dowry.’ He shook his head as he considered Vidiano Ascia yet again. The conversation they’d had sat uneasily with him, and not just because the ambassador’s insolence. ‘Something does not seem right. Most of what they ask can be resolved in a heartbeat. I have the distinct sense that they are holding something back,’ he murmured, thinking aloud. Micheletto had backed away from the fallen chair and now stood listening to Cesare intently. ‘I just cannot think why they would do that,’ Cesare went on. ‘They have no reason to stall. They stand a viable chance of getting wiped out by a foreign army if they wait too long.’

‘Perhaps they are uneasy with the situation, my Lord,’ Micheletto offered.

‘Or they are waiting for the Pope to resume his political duties and step in as negotiator,’ Cesare said, which was another thought that blackened his mood. He tried to shrug it off. ‘Well, they might get their wish, if that is indeed it,’ he said cynically. ‘I’m going over the final preparations for the funeral with Burckhardt tomorrow, after I’ve met with the French ambassador. The day after tomorrow, Juan will be in the ground and Father will have no body to clutch at. All will be back to normal, wouldn’t you say, Micheletto?’

‘If I knew what constitutes normality, my Lord.’

Cesare scoffed. ‘Let us hope that whatever constitutes normality, it is on our terms. Which is why it is important that these wedding negotiations go smoothly.’ He ran his hands through his long hair. He could feel a mighty headache come up, and he ought to let things slide for the day but found that he couldn’t. ‘It makes little sense for them to hold things back, Micheletto,’ he said to his henchman. ‘Why do they care who they speak to? For all they know, I am the Holy Father’s messenger boy. They must be up to something, and it is sure to be unpleasant for us…’

‘What can I do, my Lord?’ Micheletto asked.

Cesare thought for a moment, rubbing his temple. ‘Well, I prefer to be prepared, when the Neapolitans decide to make their move. Find out what the ambassador is up to,’ he decided.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Then I should probably go see my Father.’

If Cesare had been determined to get up and go to his Father, he might not have noticed that Micheletto, too, was lingering. But he did, so raised his eyebrows and waited.

‘There is one other thing, my Lord, but it is not urgent,’ Micheletto admitted.

‘We’re here now,’ Cesare said, though he dreaded whatever it was Micheletto had to tell him. It couldn’t be truly important, since Micheletto would never spurn his duty out of fear of Cesare’s wrath or irritation, but he doubted that it would be good news.

‘The Duke Alfonso d’Aragona would like the most illustrious Cardinal to know the depth of his sorrow upon hearing of the Gonfalonier’s death, and hopes the Cardinal will accept his prayers and his deepest sympathies,’ Micheletto said.

After a short pause, Cesare said: ‘Thank him’, feeling almost resentful that he had asked Micheletto to tell him. It was a pure waste of his time, and his henchman knew good and well that he couldn’t give two flying fucks about anyone’s deepest sympathies. Certainly not the Duke’s, whom he’d already talked about indirectly for half the day.

But Micheletto hadn’t concluded the message yet and was intent on doing so, even though he must have seen Cesare’s displeasure. ‘The Duke would also humbly request an audience with the most illustrious Cardinal, according to the Cardinal’s convenience,’ he said.

Cesare sighed so deeply he might have breathed in some air from bloody Naples. ‘Remind me, Micheletto,’ he said. ‘This elaborate marriage alliance that I am brokering – with all the patience of a Saint, I might add. Does this alliance involve the Duke Alfonso d’Aragona and the Lady Lucrezia Borgia, or am I mistaken and does it concern the Duke and “the most illustrious Cardinal”, Cesare Borgia?’

‘I believe it is the former, my Lord,’ Micheletto said, the words accompanied by a sardonic smile.

‘Thank God, that is one small mercy!’ Cesare exclaimed, and he pushed himself away from the table at last to leave for his Father’s rooms. ‘And God is merciful indeed if someone would inform Alfonso of the same thing. So decline, with the appropriate “depth of sorrow”.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Vidiano Ascia is a fake name and so he has nothing to do with the place of Nevers (which is real). But the name Ascia comes from Southern Italy, and the name Vidiano was chosen deliberately for its meaning, which will become more apparent later. It stems from the Latin "viduus", meaning “alone, with no wife, no husband or wife, abandoned, unowned”.
> 
> *A note about Lucrezia's dowry: the requests Cesare makes are real and historical, though I might have implied that the motives for these terms are different than they were in actuality.
> 
> (Yeah and the title almost spells incest, doesn't it?:)


End file.
